nookishposts

[nookishposts]

Love Is

Somewhere between Disney and acne we are led to believe that love is a constantly shiny thing, that it must be unrelentingly romantic and sexy and full of passion and purple prose. Of course there are moments, especially in the courtship days when we work extra hard at being our best selves in an effort to be desirable. Its a mating game as old as forever and unlikely to change in spite of dating apps. Its fed by the marketing trends of the day as we become convinced that we must cover our natural selves in deceptive augmentations that cost a bundle and are soon yesterday's news. Don't get me wrong, I did my share of blow-dry styling, body scents, and boots shined to mirrors. It was fun to play the part, be obvious in the flirt, laugh through deliberate double-entendres. Lust was luscious.

Part of the privilege of getting older is letting go of the clutter on all levels. Its not a lack of effort to let things be simpler, it's self-awareness and self-preservation. I love to dance but the volume in public places means I cannot hear you when you speak , and frankly I know you have things to say. I am in your company because I enjoy who you are and I chose you to share the dance with me. Whooping it up at a wedding is one thing, but I can't do the clubs just for the sake of a night out. I did my time.

I'd rather go for a walk, maybe hold hands, and look at the sky together.

I love you in your faded jeans with a bit of bed-head and a deep sigh when you take your first sip of morning tea.

I love to have that tea brewing because I am usually up first.

Love is clean fresh flannel sheets on a cold Winter's night. Its putting seeds into the soil and topping up the washer fluid in your car. Its knowing when to shut up. Its eye-rolling from across the aisle at the grocery store when the poor kid at the cash register has never been properly taught how to make change. Its enduring the oldies radio station on Sunday mornings and still missing Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe.

Love is being safe in one of you making some decisions for two. Love is reminding me that yoga pants and slippers are really not fit public attire even for the gas station. Love is allowing one another to play to their strengths and being the best cheerleader when it comes to admitting and fixing mistakes as well as celebrating the victories. Love is understanding that time apart is still love.

You want to get my interest? Ask me to dance in the living room, apropos of nothing. Ask me to stand beside you when you do something that scares you. Let me hold you when you're not even sure what's making you feel blue. Laugh at your own jokes...that makes me remember how nuts I am about you because you don't hold back in your quirks. Remind me tactfully when its time to get a haircut. Trust me to drive while you knit socks in the passenger seat.

Love is a long game where the goal posts are apt to shift along with age and bumps in the turf and worrisome side-liners. Its also forgiveness for forgetfulness, and the magnetism of shared memory.

Love is one dessert and two forks.

[nookishposts]

Seasons and Reasons

Getting older comes with loss. But we can hold space and make space at the same time, because life goes on in its way and all we can do is try to honour all of it's seasons.

Just this past week alone, I learned of the death of someone once very dear, reconnected with someone else very special from long ago, and ended a 27 year aspect of my self-identity.

About 35 years ago I developed an autoimmune illness that took 3 years to diagnose and another year or so to learn to manage. It was a scary and unpredictable time, but I was eventually able to return to school to become a masseuse and reflexologist, the thinking being that portable self-employment would give me the flexibility to deal with health flares as they came. It was a very good decision and those skills took me places I might not otherwise have experienced: including hospice palliative care. The personal mission I developed was to make hands-on body work accessible to people who might experience personal barriers due to physical and/or emotional trauma, dysmorphia, etc. I simply wanted to provide muscle comfort in a safe space. I understood through my own experiences the many barriers to becoming comfortable in one's own body. Everybody who ever graced my table taught me a great deal. I'd like to think that they helped me become more as a person, more empathetic, inclusive, and compassionate.

After 27 years, my neck and my hands have let me know they've had enough, through wrist cysts and compressed discs. If I am lucky I will get another 25-30 years on the planet and I don't want to spend them in pain because I didn't listen to my own body. I have been reducing my practice slowly for months, and a couple of days ago I finished strong with two 90-minute sessions back to back. I gave myself every advantage beforehand, a B12 shot, extra rest, Advil and lots of water. It was important to me to maintain my A game right till the final flourish. I came away very satisfied and of course a little sad. I sold my travel table, gave away a few tools of the trade and am deciding what to do with what's left. I will keep a few things around to help myself and my Beloved deal with our own aches and stiffness. I will continue to make my special salve. But, I also know that I will need to find something to fill the gap left by retirement of this sort; we tend to choose the professions we stand to gain the most from, and for 27 years, through assisting others, I came to some peace with my own traumas, my own body, my own sense of safety and comfort.

As we travel, we grow distant from certain people and places out of necessity and/or circumstance. I got word that someone who had been key in my younger adult life had died of an illness I wasn't even aware they had. While I express my condolences to her family and friends, I also selfishly wonder why I hadn't heard about it sooner, and if i could have helped make that transition any smoother. I wish I'd had some opportunity to say goodbye and a few other things. There is no doubt in my mind that she was very well supported.

Among the few people who did reach out to tell me about this individual's death was someone I would not have expected to hear from. Someone I'd hurt a long time ago , and whom I know has had some major losses and challenges of her own. The conversation was brief but kind, and I feel we both came away with the understanding that scar tissue, given time,becomes its own strength.

Between the two experiences, my mind overflowed with memories of a time in my life that was by turns, selfish and exhilarating. In our 20s, few of us have any clue as to who we are let alone who we might become or the effect we have on other people. At 62, I have a better idea, and I cannot help but cringe at so many of the things I did then that I would do so much differently now. That is what maturity brings; a bittersweet perspective. Forgiving myself is something I'm still figuring out. Funny how we can be kinder to others more easily than we can to the face in the mirror. We forget sometimes that we are mirrors of one another but seem to need a separate subset of rules. I think back to those youthful days and cannot help but smile at the antics, the drama, the sense of entitlement and immortality. In spite of my arrogant mistakes, I am grateful for the lessons that came with them. Grateful for a sense of humor that endures, and the unbelievable patience of those who have loved me in spite of myself. There is no going back. Wonderful memories soften the edges if we let them.

I'm figuring out how to make a living, most self-employed people have no pension to rely on and must keep working to satisfy needs that are far more important than financial. We define ourselves to a great extent by the work that we do and the company we keep. I am so damned lucky to have always found myself in good company even when I didn't know it at the time. The work with come, and so will more mistakes, more lessons, more understanding. Letting go, for the best of reasons, or even when we have no choice, is a lesson in humility. Its all about the threads in the tapestry we weave as we live; which by the time we die, will be substantial enough to keep us warm in the memories of others.

[nookishposts]

Shift

These days, our home is full of unabashed joy.

There are stories that change one life, two, and then like a pebble dropped into a puddle, a concentric reaction that spreads like an embrace.

I have the honour of sharing in such a story.

On our 3rd date nearly 15 years ago, my Beloved told me that she’d had a child as a teenager and he was adopted out, for all of the best reasons. When that boy turned 16, she contacted the adoption agency and made certain that her contact information was up to date so that should he ever choose to find her, he could. About 2 years ago, through an online ancestry forum, he did.

We were sitting in the living room, engaged in separate projects when I heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced up to see an expression on her face that I had never seen before and would struggle to name. A curious light came into her eyes as she looked at me and then back to the computer screen in front of her, awed, disbelieving, cautiously hopeful. “ Let me read you something” she said in the softest voice.

The email was from a then 36-year old man on the West Coast, who had come across a version of the full name he knew had been given at birth. He wanted to ask the author of the ancestry tree also bearing the same uncommon surname if she could possibly provide information about his biological mother. My Beloved had to gather herself for a little while before daring to answer him. We found out a little later that this note was his first actual enquiry. He had no way of knowing that it would be the only one he’d ever need. He gave his adopted name and we quickly found his photo on a social media platform. The image left no doubt in our minds that he was her son. The resemblance was undeniable.

As the genetic connection was confirmed through emails and photos, reality hit with a psychological sledgehammer. My Beloved spun quietly in a decades-old, echoing maelstrom of  shame. It all came flooding back; the shock of unexpected pregnancy all but suffocated by  layers of  judgement from the Church, divorced parents whose opinions and advice were polar opposites, disinterest from the young father of the child, and fears for the future of the child himself. They had 10 days together in hospital following the C-section, before choices were given and documents signed. And then came the years of not knowing, of hoping for the best.

The first thing he told her was: “ don’t worry, I have had a good life”.  A kindness for which she was grateful.

They agreed to stick with emails. To go slowly. To take the soaring, treacherously uncertain mountain of emotions one careful step at a time. So many questions. He and his partner had a child. A 2 year old girl. My Beloved, younger than me by 5 years, was also at least biologically, an instant  grandmother. It was almost too much. So much that my Beloved retreated into the relative safety of her brain and away from me and the rest of the World. So much that I called her sister, who’d been present with their own mother for the birth, to come to see her, as I was unnerved and at sea about how to be supportive. It took time.

On a whim, I contacted her son and asked if he felt ready for a video call on Christmas Eve. I assured him my Beloved knew nothing about the request and he was free to say no without repercussion. When he said yes, I asked him to define the parameters that would be most appropriate for him. We were sitting by the light of our xmas tree on Dec 24th when my phone rang with a video connection. I said a very brief hello and then handed the phone over saying “ it’s for you”. To watch the two of them see themselves in one another’s face was breath-stopping. They read one another well beyond whatever words they actually spoke. He introduced his partner and her mother, and the just-turned 3 year old little girl who would prove to be both a buffer and a prism through which the call could safely continue. There were no tears, no effusive holiday greetings, just a few minutes polite conversation unsuccessfully masking the overwhelm on both sides. 

There was a period of many months when there was little contact between them, both mother and son being introverts by nature, especially when communicating feelings.  Luckily, neither myself nor his partner have that quirk; she and I became weekly online pen pals. News of another child on the way delighted us. My Beloved began knitting up a storm and sent a parcel to her grandchild containing a gorgeous warm sweater with kite shaped buttons, and a Minnie Mouse toque complete with sparkles and a bow knitted from red yarn left in her own mother’s sewing kit.  Four generations connected in a little knitted hat. There was also a newborn sized fox outfit. We received a video of the grand unveiling ending in a shy “thank you” and a kiss blown from the palm of a 3 year old. 

It took a full year before my Beloved began to tell her story beyond her siblings, who already knew. Each time, the telling became a little lighter, a little more enthusiastic, even daring to be joyful. A little boy was born, and his biological grandmother continued knitting adorable baby clothes. Professional photos were arranged and we finally got to see them all together, a little family of four, swaddled in cuddles no less genuine for having been posed.

It took another year before we arranged to meet, face to face. 

The trip was going to be full of benchmarks. We hadn’t had a proper vacation in 4 years. It would require a 5 hour flight and I am not a happy flyer. But my job was to provide a safe zone and a soft landing for my Beloved, whatever the reunion might bring. So, she found a direct flight, paid extra for  bulkhead seats and I worked on negotiating with my claustrophobia-motion-sickness plane willies.

I watched trepidation gather in my Beloved like breathless uneasiness before a storm. On the plane, we held hands and exchanged wordless glances. Even the sheer magnificence of the mountains below, and the turbulence of flying over wildfires were not quite enough to distract us. We took only carry on baggage. Upon landing in Abbotsford Saturday morning,we met the practicalities of car rental, reaching accommodations in Vancouver, adjusting to a time change and establishing a plan. A bit of time to ourselves, we visited Granville Island,the only parking spot available happened to be right outside a yarn store of course. We visited a few shops and picked out hand-puppets for the kids. We stuck our toes in the Pacific Ocean thus completing a circumnavigation together of the North American continent: Miami, Churchill, Halifax and Vancouver in that order.Had some great sushi at Nobu. Met some wonderful cousins for brunch on Sunday and watched their faces split with delighted amazement as my Beloved explained why we had really come to BC. On Monday we undertook one of the best drives in Canada;  Sea to Sky running from Vancouver to Whistler. My neck hurt from craning it in every direction and I quickly ran out of “Wows”. Crisp, clean, salty air. Variations in landscape from sand to sage to snow. Crystalline cascades, trees springing impossibly from sheer rock faces, posted warnings about black bears and bungee jumping locations. We wandered, bodies and minds as present as we could recall being in a very long time. Stood wordlessly at mesmerising  lookouts, remembering for a moment just how vast the World really is. A quirky little bistro provided an awesome lunch. On the way back down we picked up a hitchhiker returning from the other side of the mountains with a huge pack full of sage bundles to sell, earning ferry money en route to her home on a fibreglass boat tethered to an island. We made certain she had what she needed.

Beloved and I have reached a place in our lives where words aren’t always necessary; we can feel a shift in the energy of the other, let the unasked questions answer for themselves all in good time. We don’t always get it right, but our next steps would be bigger than any mountain we’d travelled so far and we wanted to tread carefully. We checked into our reservation at Harrison Hot Springs, 20 minutes outside of Chilliwack where we would be meeting the next day, with my Beloved’s son and his family, for a picnic.  

We pulled into the parking lot on a sunny, breezy Tuesday afternoon, laden with toys and snacks. We saw him watch us arrive, dip his head and take a long deep breath. His partner waited nearby, one eye on the kids and the other sending him strength. My Beloved took her own deep breath and stepped out of the car. There were no tears, no drama, just quick hugs and introductions. His partner and I , social media pen pals for months, went off to amuse the kids, leaving our two introverts to fend for themselves. They sat at a table, profiles nearly identical, with shy, mirror-image smiles. Most of that initial conversation remains between them, but after about 40 minutes, we joined them and laid out a picnic of strawberries, peas, meat and cheese, salties and sweets. The 4 year old watched my Beloved very carefully, knowing that this was the lady who sent all the knitted goodies and having been told that Daddy grew in her belly as she had grown in her own Mummy’s tummy. She seemed to recognise some kind of connection from the moment they met and I got to watch it grow before my very eyes. The picnic lasted about 3 and a half hours, until the kids were worn out, all 4 adults having taken turns feeding and herding them, little walk-away pauses to digest lunch and reality. 38 years worth. 

We made plans for them to visit us Wed afternoon at the resort, so the kids could play in the family pool. When they arrived, it was with the announcement that they had booked a room too. Struggles involving other family health matters had been going on for some time and they decided it would be good to take a little break. We were ecstatic.  Swimming, supper, bedtime routines with the wee ones, and breakfast Thursday morning. More than we ever could have asked for. The kids wanted one more swim, and as checkout time grew closer, they decided they would like to stay one more night. I cannot begin to describe the natural-ness of it all. Its hard to hold anything back  when everybody is in a bathing suit, relaxing in warm mineral waters, surrounded by mountains and sunshine. It was joyful. No raised voices, no tantrums, no helicoptering, no judgements, no resentments, nothing but relief and gratitude. Another supper, another bedtime routine, one more breakfast together and suddenly we stood with packed vehicles in the roundabout in front on the hotel on Friday morning. We had a date with my Beloved’s stepmom 4 hours away, but would be back for the 4 year olds dance recital on Saturday morning. Hugs all around, my Beloved and her boy saving one another for last. It was a little too quick and his partner asked that they do it again so she could take a photo. So they embraced again, but this time, he settled right in, my Beloved allowed herself to be held and they took their sweet wordless time letting go. It was magical. 

We drove through the Fraser River Valley inland to Salmon Arm, temperatures climbing way too fast to properly acclimate. Stepmom made a lovely supper while we had an excellent catch-up, and after a few brief hours of fitful sleep, we hit the Coquihalla just after sunrise,over the mountains back to Chilliwack. We made it with moments to spare and as the first group of dancers hit the stage in their sparkly little costumes to the strains of Purple People Eater, I cried my eyes out. We’d been asked several times how we wanted the kids to address us and had answered that our first names were enough, but they insisted we choose a family moniker. I had promised we would discuss it in the car en route to the recital. Neither of us felt comfortable with Nana, Nanny, Granny, but decided that Grandma would be okay. Watching that little girl in the spotlight, it hit me that I had accepted a key role in her and her brother’s life. Baby number 3 is due in November. My maternal grandmother had meant the world to me. I realised with a joyful jolt that I had a lot to live up to, and that’s when the tears finally came. My Beloved was similarly glassy-eyed and smiling fit to bust. We held hands. The solid reality of family-forward settled on us like a quilt sewn of sunshine stuffed with stardust. (Take that Hallmark!)

Our tiny dancer was pooped after her two performances and desperately needed a nap. So did we. And we’d be flying home the next morning. That alone was more than I was ready to consider. I kept glancing at my Beloved, her face radiant and shifting with a kalidescope of emotion. She seemed to me deeply satisfied in one way, deeply longing in another. She grinned back at me watching her and said “I’m just processing”. We had one more evening to spend. Negotiating by text, we picked up sushi on the way to their home, as you do when your  granddaughter expresses a desire for miso soup.

There were bubbles and water slides on the porch after supper. The showing off of toys and bedrooms, the reading of stories in silly Disney voices, an avalanche of Minnie Mouse stuffies,  and still more dancing in the living room. Mr 15-month old had charmed us from the first and continued his steady stream of ready entertainment, blowing kisses on the run and never missing a trick. Both kids are really smart and happy in themselves, a testament to how they’ve been parented. The final leave-taking was as awkward as it could be when nobody wants it to happen at all. No matter how well the wounds have healed, taking  bandages off is always painful. My Beloved and her son were the last of course. She softly said to him “You are such a good man” and he beamed.

We had just made it back to our hotel room when my phone rang. Our granddaughter wanted to call, even though she didn’t know what words she wanted to use. For us, the wanting was enough. Early the next morning as we packed, there came a 6 second video of her laying in her pile of Minnies, blowing one last kiss and whispering “I miss you”.

My Beloved and I agree that this was the trip of a lifetime and we are not the same people we were when we flew out. Our perspectives have shifted in ways we could not have anticipated. The last of her shame is behind her because he has not a shred of judgement in his heart. A lifeline has re-woven, with vital new strands to bolster those so long buried by time and circumstance. Love-driven choices will always prevail. 

[nookishposts]

Old Dog Gifts

There is nothing like an old dog.

We said goodbye to our 14 year old lab yesterday, with him to his last breath, his eyes full of love and trust as we lay on the floor together in one last snuggle. He was very much still his full self, locked into a body that was clearly done. He carried several lipomas on a creaky, failing set of legs, his hearing mostly gone, his ability to do his favorite activities severely compromised by heart issues and age. But he was still him.

We went for one last slow walk around the yard an hour before driving to the vet for the appointment we knew we could no longer postpone. I found myself remembering the hundreds of rambles through woods and fields and winding roads we’d taken over the 13-plus years he was with us. Pembina Valley, Riding Mountain, endless prairie skies and a million stops to sniff the wind, read the moment. An 11 month old hell-on-wheels puppy grew into a most wonderful and eternally goofy companion. His best friend, 6 years older, has been gone for a while and we are taking it on faith that they have happily reunited somewhere. He was excited for one last ride in the car. As I took him to the grassy spot for one last sniff, I saw a licence plate in the parking lot that read TUCKER2. The name of my first dog as an adult, also a big goofy lab. My morning card was Dog. Nudges from Spirit all over the place. 

The vet was wonderful and it was a tender transition, all of us on the floor together.

We have photos and videos and such amazing memories. His bed remains on the floor at the foot of ours, his blanket on the end of the couch, beneath a window from which he could watch until we came home each day. But the medicine vials are gone, and nobody needs help up the stairs anymore. The 2 other animals in the house are acutely aware of the shift in the energies. The silence is deafening. I am managing only small tasks, my eyes leaking in sorrowful surges in spite of the deep knowing that our boy was ready to go. My Beloved is at work today, mourning in her quiet way. The last sound he heard from us was actually laughter about a private joke. We didn’t see that coming, but what a delightful final song for us all. He knew he was loved. We knew we were too.

The gift is in knowing when time is up, and in the anticipation of that moment, surrendering to sun puddles on the rug, extra treats just because, savouring  slow walks and soft snuggles, the scents of woods, water, wild things, wistful sense-memories. The magnet of devotion means no leash, no restrictions. The joy of good company is enough. There is wisdom in letting things be.

[nookishposts]

Upon Reflection

A client asked me the other day if, when I worked on her face, I could make her look any younger. I answered : just a smile can do that. And then, without thinking too much about it, I offered her a challenge which I will also offer here for anyone who decides it might be worth their attention. Reflection.

Few people I know are ever satisfied with the way they look. Hair, skin, size, age, clothes, and any body part you could name, something’s not quite right.

Well, I have had such a hard time looking in the mirror that for a very long time, I simply stopped. I went so far as to soften my gaze even when I was brushing my teeth or combing my hair. Years’ worth of being unwilling to look because I was so afraid/ashamed/disappointed by what I might see. I doubt I am alone in this.

What changed was the day I decided I had to face up to myself, quite literally. There are a bazillion rah-rah affirmations and exercises designed to challenge us to really look at ourselves, but I went about my immersion in a way I felt I could manage. I stood in front of the mirror above the bathroom sink and I leaned in as closely as I could, until all I could really see where my own eyes. And I looked into them, by degrees until I began to really see them. After a little while, I forgot about the rest of me and just looked carefully.

My eyes are no longer the almost-black brown that they were when I was a child. Their colour has faded to a kind of buckwheat honey, with bits of sunlight glinting here and there. I’ve no doubt that age and sun exposure have had the most to do with the the colour change, and I expect it happened slowly over the years when I wasn’t looking. I’ve worn glasses at least part of the time since I was 9 years old, and I keep a couple of pairs of cheaters around for reading as well as the expensive trifocals that allow me to drive, read the signs, and not hit anything. Within my eyes, there are tiny shadows of grief unresolved, but mostly they are full of light and wonder and an empathetic warmth. Very much like my Mum’s eyes. When I tan in the sunny months, they nearly glitter with the merriment that comes from being so much outdoors, so much cloud-gazing, so much garden and growth. I have to protect them now with decent sunglasses and as little night driving as I can get away with, for they tire more quickly and wander into daydreams that run like movies behind them. They are indeed capable of flashing with hatred, but thankfully only a couple of times out of an entire lifespan. They weep as easily with joy as with sorrow, they often narrow in thought, and have been known to disappear when the rest of my face bursts open within belly laughter. I hope that they also reflect love. I know they are often kind.

Stepping back from the mirror just a wee bit, a couple of other features come in to focus. There are thick folds of skin above and below my eyes, rimmed in fine lashes that like my eyebrows have turned coarse and silvery. At the east and west of my eyes are lines carved deep by adventure, expression, experience. Below are the half-moon shadows of fatigue, fact, and slowing circulation. Those rest upon the full moons of my fleshy cheeks, spotted and scarred but still soft and supple  when dancing cheek to cheek with my Beloved in the living room.

I’m told I have my Grandma’s nose, and it pleases me to know she is visible in my every expression, even having been broken and mended more than once as her timeless heart surely understood.  My lips have had the gift of so many kinds of kisses that they could well have shied away by now, and certainly they are thinner, but no less capable of a genuine smile. The smiles of my Mum and my sister are similar, but not exactly like mine as we’ve each learned indifferent ways. The line of my jaw has softened and it wobbles when I move, in testament to both indulgence and indolence. The flesh there is more than I need, yet also speaks to what I have had the great luxury of consuming. My ears are fairly close to my head, the hair around them so short that anyone can see when I try to lie that the tips turn very red. 

There are creases in my brow, in my neck, in my opinions. 

But I see too, the  moon-faced young kid who smelled like puppies and learned to balance on a  tightrope between poles of parenting. The  sneaky sprite who hid treasures beneath the front porch floorboards, fell asleep in sunny puddles and read beneath the blankets long long past bedtime. I see the eager teen drinking thirstily from the fountains of films, plays, woods and whims and wild things...who could explode with fury, cower with fear, cling to a life-raft of angst and longing, but still dance with abandon when the right songs played, and go days without sleep on the mere hint of adventure.

I see the woman in her 20s who didn’t sit still until she got very sick and had no choice, then built in her 30s a new way of being with a small amount of caution and a huge effort of will. I see the young woman who marched for human rights and for fair pay and for peace, who thumbed across the province playing coffee houses and had her heart broken on a regular basis by other women who taught her hard lessons. Who finally in her 40s met the woman who would teach her the most and love her like the grownup she tried too many years to avoid becoming. Who helped make heartfelt wishes come true.

I look in the mirror at all of the women I have been and may yet be. I thank my eyes for finally seeing that my body has served me well in spite of  the neglect and the ignorance it has withstood for more than 60 years, the strength and comfort it offers even now; a soft landing if nothing else. 

Before I know it, my hands come and touch their reflections, just fingertips, lightly, respectfully, gratefully. And in my eyes, there is appreciation for all that they are still learning to see.

[nookishposts]

Firsts

We are hosting our first guest from the Russian/Ukrainian conflict. At least the first one to make it as far as our house, by way of Armenia, Frankfurt, and Vancouver. Flights of 5, 10, and 6 hrs respectively over a period of 2 days. The place she was waiting in Armenia, where she travelled to get her Covid vaccine in order to travel further, was struck by explosions along the Azerbaijan border the day after she left. Just in time. Our guest is Svetlama, Russian-born but married to a Ukrainian citizen who is currently on the first leg of his long own journey of travel visas and the lottery of permissions.

We are all getting to know one another, and there are many firsts. No language barrier, which was our first surprise, the odd colloquialism notwithstanding. She is the first in our household to test positive for Covid 19, likely picked up through one of her 3 flights, in stressful exhaustion, and in spite of full vaccination. Happily her symptoms are no worse than a mild summer cold, and the rest of the household continues to test negative. She will also heal first thanks to lots of ginger and zinc and juice and extra sleep according to a strange clock. It is her first time to Canada, where she had her first corn fresh on the cob instead of out of a can, and in the course of legal errands, her first taste of the infamous Canadian default of politeness. She is used to a much more direct and often demanding way of communication, and her first impression is that we are as a country, genuinely nice. And, that we have very few fences.

I have been thinking a lot about firsts. All of the firsts someone emigrating to a place they have only heard of must navigate after the physical transportation;  language, customs, rules and expectations that are required just to find a bed for the first night, and that first meal that likely lacks  and of the the comfort food of home. When Svetlana first talked about missing dumplings, we figured out that frozen perogies were our closest approximation. Courtesy of her culinary talents we had our first Russian salad of potatoes and beets and peas in mayonnaise and a concoction of garlic paste on a slice of garden-warm tomato that was easily the best of the new firsts for me.  The very first meal that we cooked together on her first full day was all around a centrepiece of mashed potatoes, the universal comfort food. Our first meeting was through the stutter of a video chat, but it was enough for all of us to feel reassured enough that when the time came, actual airport greetings were almost anticlimactic.  Svetlana’s first coffee on the early morning ride home from the Ottawa airport was of course Tim Horton’s, achieved in her very first drive-through experience.  When My Beloved’s employer R.K. Porter heard about our guest, their first thought was to  help with flight expenses, for which we all are grateful.

One can drive in Canada on a Russian licence for up to 60 days. Who knew?  Road signs and rules are pretty much identical. But one must get Canadian adaptations for things like lap tops and phone chargers to accommodate the differences in household voltage.Oh, and the chance of getting shot or  going  suddenly  missing after voicing a political opinion is pretty low here too.

This whole experience has come about because of war-driven firsts in the families from which my Beloved and her siblings spring; on the paternal side was a Marianovits grandfather who came from Russian-Ukrainian-Hungarian soil to make a better life here in Canada. On the maternal side were 3 Fletcher children, siblings sent from England to North America for their safety, two of whom ended up permanently in Canada. My Beloved remains indebted to all of those firsts and wants to keep alive the legacies of welcome and possibility in humble gratitude for the kindnesses extended to her own ancestors. Already, in our own little village there is a wellspring of support and resources on offer for Svetlana. Everybody wants to help because on some level, we all can appreciate the feeling of leaving home, of being the first, of having faith that we should never have to do so alone.

[nookishposts]

Town Meeting

I haven’t been writing much since I finished my book and sent it off to the publishing houses. I guess I needed a bit of recovery time after such a big project, but also, with all that is going on in the World these past months, I have surprisingly found myself without words so much of the time. 

The words “conflict” and “privilege” have been circling like vultures over carrion in my brain. Each day is so awash in conflicts near and far that some of us are struggling to keep hope afloat . On a global scale, there are so many leaks in humanitarian vessels shot through with hatred and blame that our entire armada of good intentions is sinking, and there’s a blatant, unapologetic pecking order for the distribution of life jackets. Those of us privileged enough to have been born high and dry away from war zones and extreme poverty know we’ve won the geographical lottery, but also feeling helpless as we witness the preventable drowning of innocent people from the relative safety of our protected shores. I have no personal frame of experience and cannot imagine the terror. I have been searching for a way to frame things for myself in order to have faith that we don’t have to be victims of the merciless rip tides of inaction and ignorance.

I have only my own experience to draw on. I grew up in small towns and have chosen to return to that manner of living as I realign my needs and values to try to  prepare for the privilege of aging well.  At no point have I ever had to fear for my life or to fight for it. I have always had some form of a roof, a meal, choices, and resources.

Small towns can sometimes be equated with small-mindedness, but I have seldom found that to be true. It’s harder to hide in a place where people can’t help but see you, and theoretically harder to ignore conflicts and issues right under our neighbourhood noses. If I start to think of the World as one small town, with all of us neighbours by definition, a few familiar comforts begin to return to my mind. Every town has it’s business section, it’s production and manufacturing area, streets that vary from up-scale to down-trodden. There are usually a few places of worship within close proximity to one another, mostly companionable. There is a Town Hall, a Town Council, and a Township infrastructure of individuals who have publicly purported to care enough to make decisions on behalf of the rest of us who’ve elected and/or them. In other words, public commitments, paid and voluntary.

Pick any small town and go have a look around. Stop for lunch, check out the green spaces, look at the general state of things. It’s pretty easy to tell which towns have their stuff together by the way people behave within it. Do the local business owners work together?  Are there a variety of services for kids, elderly, those considered vulnerable or at risk? Are there doctors and dentists and educational opportunities? When there are events, who rolls up their sleeves to make them happen and what kind of “outside” attention do they draw? Where are the cracks in the facade? Is there a “wrong side of the tracks” ?  Do the lower-income neighbourhoods get trees planted and streets paved at the same rate as the business district? Are the townspeople happy to be living there?  What kind of balance has been struck between preservation and innovation, between history and progress?  Who is being left out, left behind, or left to fend for themselves? 

No small town would let their flag fly with gaping holes in it. Nor would they ignore a person who fell on a sidewalk and needed help getting up and getting home. If there were illegalities transpiring in the alley behind the bank after dark, floodlights would be installed and local law enforcement would be checking in. When a small town succeeds, it’s because those who live there are not wiling to let it fail, and they can’t help but see when it shows signs of doing so. Small town people make a choice to invest in themselves and in one another by taking some responsibility for those things they share, whatever challenges may arise. They usually do it for two reasons: because they can’t ignore what they have to face every day, and because they want to be a part of something bigger; have a sense of place. 

Well...what if we were to think of this World as one small town and stop pretending we can turn a blind eye to the atrocities endured by our neighbours?  What if, instead of shutting off the news when it becomes too overwhelmingly painful to watch, we look instead for exactly those things that make it so painful; the commonalities of humanity, the fear, the loss, the reality that none of us ever gets through life without help. What if we remember that we are more alike than different, that things are not really “way over there” but right here in the  neighbourhood we hope will sustain us? 

It’s not a solution. But neither is war. Or blame. Or the privilege of distance.

The small town where we live is finding all kinds of ways to support families from  Ukraine having to flee as their small towns are being destroyed. Yard sales, free-cycle forums, job offers, transportation, housing, and  health services.  Small towns all over the place are opening their doors and their minds to people who are living through what all of us fear; the tyranny and violence wrought by someone else who feels entitled to seize any home, any town, any sense of place. By those whose drive is only to conquer instead of cooperate, and who feel threatened by the interdependent success of the people of all the  small towns and the all of the incredible resources they hold. 

It’s voting season. Change starts at home. In the hearts of the small town that makes us all neighbours and responsible for one another, always. Be willing to risk the tiny force of a butterfly wing that has the potential to become a swell  that lifts and moves all of the leaking boats toward safer shores. I don’t know what else to do except to remember where I come from and  that every human being deserves a safe roof, a decent meal, and a helping hand. Begin with what you know. And just keep going.

[nookishposts]

Watching

As grateful as I am to be alive amid the chaos, smugly assuming that the extremes of my youth have smoothed into sweetness, this is still a painful and poignant time of life. The losing of one’s contemporaries increases in frequency and immediacy, and a certain sense of mortality permeates those quiet moments upon both waking and at the cliff of sleep. 

It is so important to celebrate the gift of having been touched by people, of lives intersected at unsubtle crossroads like the “X” on a treasure map. It is also critical that we take time to acknowledge the scars left by loss or impending loss of those same spirits in whose company we grew, laughed, and were challenged. So many types of loss to consider; the death of a parent, a teacher, a neighbour, a co-worker, perhaps a sibling or a spouse. It is the loss of a contemporary resonates perhaps most deeply in it’s proximity to our own state of being. 

We sit quietly bedside ready to aid in practical matters as we are able, but between tasks, in contemplation of the reality of impending loss, we hope that our loved ones suffer less in our company than they might if they were dying alone. And when we are prevented from being with them, there is an extra blanket of loss, a scratchy, irritating thing that interferes with our options in the course of our goodbye. The pandemic has erected a cruel barrier between us and hospice, hospital, funeral, memorial, prevented us from holding hands. It takes energy to die, drawn from the circle of spirits gathered round to support a leave-taking...first to open the door and then to close it behind our final breath.

[nookishposts]

The Dream

I am in a very old and somewhat sprawling house; staircases and corridors and funny little rooms on multiple levels. It appears to have been quite grand in it’s day. The house has not been much lived in for some time as curtains are mostly closed and furniture is either draped or missing or dishevelled in some way. It’s very dim and slightly claustrophobic but also intriguing. I wander from place to place at random, just trying to figure out the layout but it seems I have been here before as nothing I encounter comes as a surprise. There is a familiarity, a kind of remembering as a stroll from room to room, poking my head in just to see what has changed or stands out in any way. At some point I begin to climb a series of stairwells. As I get higher, the stairs become less ornate, steeper, narrower and  a bit unnerving. At last, I reach the very top of the stairs. There is no more hand-railing, and a sheer drop into nothingness on all sides. If I stand on tiptoe I can see into the attic space above me. It is a huge open room surrounded by windows and full of warm sunlight. It is clean and fresh and has polished wood floors, but no furniture that I can see, just lots and lots of open space.  I know it is a beautiful room and I want very much to go in to it. The problem is that to do so I need to make a physical leap, upwards and across the chasm of nothingness that surrounds the top step I am standing on. The entrance hatch to the attic room is fairly small and I am concerned that even if I make the leap and catch the rim, I will either not have the arms strength to pull myself up and through or I won’t even fit through the opening itself as I have gained such weight. So I stand there. Weighing the odds. Wanting to jump but terrified of falling. Feeling like there are no other alternatives between leaping and trusting myself, or turning back and never knowing what I might find. I can even feel warm soft breezes coming through the opening, like a caress against my face. It is so inviting, I am so tempted, but I remain standing on one narrow stair above the distinct possibility of death or at least great pain should I move the wrong way. I am tired. I am yearning to try, but afraid I won’t make it through that opening into what I know is an incredible space of freedom and light.

This is usually where I wake up.

[nookishposts]

The Universal Truth

I have been slowly, layer by layer, peeling away my own haz mat suit. I worked hard putting on all of that armour damn it, only to discover that to learn anything at all, I had to undo all of the rusted-shut seams and take the thing off. In doing so, I’ve come face to face with the terror of having absolutely nothing between me and the real world. Yikes. 

Brene Brown maintains that mid-life is an unravelling and what must take the place of that armour is curiosity. Fine, I get that. But the blue plate special of curiosity, (served at 5pm each day now that we are older,) comes with a generous side-dish of potentially paralysing “what-if?”. It’s the odd-looking potato salad we didn’t ask for, next to the fresh juicy burger we’ve been craving. How long has it been sitting in the fridge? What if it’s bad, the mayo is off, it’s made of yesterday’s mashed potatoes dressed up to look legit? It has the potential to spoil the whole meal, so perhaps its best to just avoid it altogether.  Unless.., what if I am missing the best potato salad ever?

If I am honest, I have been “what-if-ing” my way into safe corners for years already, so what if  “what-if” just doesn’t work anymore? What if “what-if” became something else like: “what now?” or “what’s next?” or “what’s new?”

I have watched my Beloved unravel an entire sock she has just finished knitting because there was something about it she felt she needed do better.  I actually gasped out loud the first time I saw her do it, as all I saw was the hours of beautiful work destroyed in about 3 minutes. She just grinned at me, shrugged her shoulders and explained she wouldn’t be able to wear the sock if it didn’t fit properly, so she would simply try again. The only “knitting” I have ever learned to do resulted in chain-mail; protective, flexible to a point, and awfully  heavy to wear full time. It took years of hyper-vigilance to construct, and will take conscious effort as well as time to unravel. Good grief, what if I am naked underneath ?

I’m 60 this year and just applied for my Canada Pension, early. I don’t know where or if I will even be here at 65 which is the usual time to apply. But, mostly self-employed and living simply, I figure I will take what’s offered now and enjoy whatever little extra it amounts to . Too many of my contemporaries are already gone, and I am determined to enjoy the remaining slope of my journey, whether it’s 5 years or 35 years. The subtle creeping question of how I want to live going forward has accelerated into a cosmic swat upside my head...which includes figuring out how I got here in the first place. Each link of that chain mail costume I’ve worn way too long represents a what-if and a calculated risk. Early trauma in my life led me to do one of two things in almost every situation: armour up in self-defence, or attempt to dance on a tightrope woven from delicate filaments of hope. Both of those involved steely resolve. Neither turned out to be risk-free. It is as possible to die in a cage of your own making as it is to take a leap of faith, and fall. I am terrified of both. But the periods of inertia, when I chose to do nothing at all, to cower quietly until the moment passed were where I think I lost the most.

The armour I built has served me very very well, gotten me through some painful times, held me upright when my knees buckled, allowed me to lend my arm as an escort along someone else’s journey, kept me from burning whenever I was forced to dash through flames. But while I was protected from the fire I was also untouched by other wonderful things, like unconditional love, like spontaneity, like being fully present without expectation. Loop by rusted loop, I find I am undoing the knots of fear in hopes of the spontaneous risks of being fully real. I feel like Pinnochio finally understanding the futility of his own fibs. 

Most of my life has in fact been quite wonderful. But as a small child my body was violated so many times that even now, that is where my emotions will express themselves. In those moments of violation, my mind learned to remove itself, but my body took in all of the pain and the terror and the shame; they grew roots in my belly that spread and strangled and clenched my brow, my jaw, my muscles and my lungs. It is my body that betrays me when something awakens the echoes of terror, and the shame of being publicly vulnerable often keeps me away from opportunities to grow and learn. That indefatigable something in each child that saves them from collapsing despair was in me transformed to rage and stored in my organs, roaring forth in explosive moments of rebellion, retreating to simmer in it’s own vicious juices until the next time. On rare occasions it can still happen, even now.  For many years I have understood this process, intellectually at least. But now at 60, the time has come to speak with that enraged and fearful child, unwrap her from her layers of survivalist gear, bathe her clean in unpolluted waters and hold her gently, not too tight, even as she struggles, until she can safely remember how to forgive herself the most of all.

There is something to be said for the “fake it ‘till you make it” strategy, but as life grows shorter and our time too precious to waste energy in just endurance, our masks grow cumbersome and we tire of wearing them.  We divest ourselves of outworn clothing, outworn ideas, excess tasks and trinkets...why not of the behaviours that served us well and are thankfully no longer critical? If we’ve held our both breath and our tongue in order to be polite, make a living, to get through the milestones of adulthood until now, wouldn’t it be good to free them too? Even knowing that sometime, in spite of our best efforts, shit will still happen anyway.

If we are lucky enough to make it to mid-life and rediscover the luxury of choice, we’ve earned a chance to figure out who we really are. We are not our achievements or our mistakes though they certainly contribute to what is left when we distil them to their simplest form. And with that nugget of purity, what shall we do?

I’ve spent a career in helping to create safe spaces for others; through adjunct social services, recreation, volunteering, human resources, and the respectful body work practices I continue now. I have been subconsciously driven to ensure that I would never cause anyone else to be frightened or feel threatened or unsafe in any way. I would offer  support to the extent of my abilities. We tend to choose ( when we can) those jobs which we ourselves will most benefit from, rarely understanding that until we’ve retired from them. Ergo; I’ve spent many many years finding safety and support myself, through trying to extend it to others. To some degree, it has worked. I’ve had the fortune to have met quite a few folks who think similarly, usually because of how they coped with their own traumas. We are sensitive to those who have not had the luxury of choice and who have become stuck in the endless loop of disappointments, knowing that something is missing but not what or how to find it, and endlessly acting out in the name of survival. No judgements. And at the time of life that our bodies begin to remind us that they are in need of more care, more patience , we are forced to slow down, sift through our bag of tricks, and realise the only person we have ever really fooled is ourselves. Which we often don’t need, or even want, to do anymore.

I liken it in some ways to skinny dipping of a summer’s evening; we arrive at the water’s edge dusty from our labours, weary of the journey, in need of a rest and a respite. Before we can get into the water, we have to look around as we worry about who might be watching...we have to get beyond the self-consciousness of our imperfect bodies, that we have aged, living and gravity have taken over,and we might even smell a little funky under our well-worn public personas. Might  somebody steal our clothes when we aren’t looking thinking they are being helpful and hilarious at the same time? And then there’s the lake (stream/river/ocean/waterfall, your choice) itself? What lies beneath the surface? Is it deep? Is it cold? Do we even remember how to swim? Will we be able to make it back to shore once we take the plunge? 

But there it is, right at our feet....a gorgeous expanse of water, perhaps lit dramatically by a setting sun and a rising moon (insert naked joke here) looking so...tempting. It’s quiet but for the breeze and the night birds. It’s just us and an opportunity. There’s nothing in there that wants anything to do with a skinny-dipping human being, and they will happily keep their distance until we are done. It’s so worth the risk for that luscious feeling of freedom, the unencumbered , gentle sluicing away of effort and cares and worries, bodily buoyed by the power of the water as you move through it however you need to, until it’s time to float on your back and watch the stars come out. And release all the held breaths.

If I have to start with one big toe, get goose pimples in all my hidden places, squeal-ease my way in up to my ankles, then my knees, then the sudden “whooo-mama!” entry of those bits of myself the sun seldom sees, well, gol-durn-it I’m gonna do it. I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to teach myself at long last that it can be okay to be carefree, to trust, to float, to get out of my head and look up. I want to be held like a small child learning to swim, and feel the easy, sensual power of my limbs understand how to propel me forward from wonder to wonder. I want to skinny-dip from the soul on out. I don’t care who’s watching. 

[nookishposts]

Coop de Gras

For the past 17 days we have had 13 little chicks in a brooder on our kitchen table. They came to us as day-olds  and will be ready to start laying by early September. We ordered 12 but got a spare, so a true Baker’s Dozen from Baker’s Feeds in Forfar. 

**(Last year, Bakers provided our ready-to-lay pullets, absolutely wonderful birds who unfortunately fell prey to a weasel on xmas morning 2020. It was grim and a hard lesson. The coop has since been reinforced with 1/4 inch hardware mesh, all 4 walls plus the ceiling and the window. We’ve also fashioned a sliding trap door from a metal baking sheet that should provide greater security from predators. The floor is concrete. We hope we are better prepared for this second flock).

When they arrived, these marshmallow-sized balls of fuzz all together could have perched in both my hands. 17 days later they are easily the size of robins, have lost much of their fuzz and have been sprouting spiky little red feathers from their shoulders and tails, looking quite steampunk teenager-y.  When they are fully feathered they will be Lucille Ball-type redheads, just like their predecessors. At the moment they are a funky combination of yellow, beige, brown and rust, with comb-overs quickly filling in. Their feet went from the tiniest of twigs to outright clodhoppers and they’ve each lost their egg tooth to a fiercely pointed and very greedy little beak. They are curious and hilarious little divas who see my Beloved and I as their personal chambermaids and vending machines. They will eat from our hands which is nice and don’t mind being handled for a couple of minutes at a time.Little gold coloured combs, like tiny tiaras are beginning to poke from their foreheads and I would not be surprised to see  ruby slippers any day now, except that would be mixing my movie metaphors.

Anywho, like any offspring outgrowing the nest, we transported them to their new destination complete with the comforts of home and some snacks to tide them over.They will need their heat lamp for a couple more weeks yet and the box bed they have been sleeping in has made the journey with them, except the sides are down now so they can come and go in their much larger space, access the big feeder and waterer while their baby-sized ones are still within reach. If we could have sent them off with 13 little teddy bears, we would have. I will miss being greeted by a peeping choir every morning as I make coffee and they sing themselves awake. I will miss hearing their voices change and become downright conversational as their vocabulary expands. I will miss watching them mature almost by the hour as I come and go in my day. I will miss watching my Beloved coo over them when she comes through the door long before the dog and I rate any attention. I will not miss the extraordinary amount of dust in the house from them kicking through wood chips and throwing their feed at one another. When we could sit in the living room and watch the particles regularly fly up and over the 2 foot sides of their box, we knew it was time. It was like watching a cartoon we have to clean up after. There’s a fine layer of chick-kickage throughout the house that will take a week to remove. And of course, we would do it all again, maybe.

Watching these adolescent girlies explore their new digs was a hoot in itself. They turned one flap of the cardboard brooder into a slide, skittering up the ramp and wee-ing their way back down to plop-land in a couple of inches of soft sweet pine shavings. They basked, turning their faces up towards the thin sunlight coming through their window, filling their little chests with the new scents of fresh-mowed grass and garden soil. They looked back and forth at one another as if to say; “Huh...cool beans!” and then skittered to their tiny roost under the heat lamp at the noise of me moving the metal ladder after making a final adjustment to the cord for their lamp. 

They are tough to tell apart as yet because they change so quickly, however personalities are becoming more evident and there is one little soul who doesn’t say a whole lot but is always the most curious, the boldest, and who looks me square in the eye when she does speak. I’ve decided to call her Ruthie, after Ruth Bader Ginsberg. She’s little but determined, and I suspect she has things to teach me.  We’ve left the little graduates now alone for a couple of hours, to settle and find their way around campus. They’ve out-paced their kitchen table nest, and us. For now. In a week or two, they will be ready to go outside and play, to scratch for grubs, and maybe enjoy some bits of fruit and veg along with chick mash. They won’t stay little much longer, so it’s a good thing we took lots of baby pictures. Tonight will be their first night out of the house. I will keep a flashlight by the bed in case somebody wakes up unnerved;... Probably me.

[nookishposts]

Bubblejoys

I didn’t even see it coming.

There I was squinting to see through a windshield, wipers at full speed, trying to maintain enough distance from big cargo vehicles spraying the rest of us as they ran through huge puddles, turning the music down so I could see better through the hammering rain, when it hit me.

Like somebody took a child’s bubble-wand and gently blew opalescent chuckles through my veins, my body underwent a happy little wriggle from top to toe and I found myself smiling ear to ear. Just this...random burst of joy. Out of no where.

I have no idea what caused it. Perhaps the buds on the trees busting out everywhere along the roadside. Maybe it was the music I was singing along to in the cab of the truck. Could be it was the smooth ride of brand new summer tires just put on yesterday, or the pepper steaks a friend at the grocery store asked the butcher to fresh cut for me. It might have been the nasty vaccine hangover symptoms that had already faded into memory, or the knowledge that I will shortly be training for an enjoyable new job. The pink potted hydrangeas? The constant chirpy cacophany of 9-day-old chicks at home on the kitchen table ? The little pond filling up with rain, in the front yard where we dug out all the bamboo? Maybe a combination of cheerful check-in notes from friends and the plan to make nachos for supper. and the promise of some sunshine on the weekend when I will be playing outside. My loved ones are safe and sound and there is a future full of sweet little to-dos on my list.

I have no idea what it was, but my heart swelled and my eyes got a little shiny and I said “thank you, for all of it”  out loud to no one in particular. 

[nookishposts]

Watercolours

Dexter the Labradoofus and I took our morning walk at 6:30 am as per usual. We only go 3-4 kilometers at a time now as both of us have ageing knees that do better and get stronger in short bursts of activity spread throughout our day.

It is that rare time of year when plant life is about to burst from behind the curtain of encouraging rains and lengthening days. As we walked, a rising tide of murmurs came from the woods and fields around us; soft lowing of cows ready to be milked, crows declaring their territory and tree buds popping in a sound not dissimilar to the dramatic pout of an impatient child. We became slowly more sodden in a gentle steady rain, my glasses fogged enough to finally be consigned to a pocket in my bright yellow raincoat, Dexter flicking droplets from the tip of his casually swaying but ever-vigilant tail. It’s a soft morning, the dreamy kind, tempting to just curl into a corner with a good book and a hot drink and consider the delicious benefits of a self-indulgent nap.

Returning home, I pour my coffee and check my emails. Among them I find one a friend has sent; a series of cartoons and photos with funny captions. The very first one makes me smile broadly. It’s a photo of two empty Wonderbread bags laying on a wooden counter and the caption reads:  “For Sale: Vintage Boot Liners”. In primary school in the early 60s, many of us wore ugly mud brown galoshes, the kind we tugged on over top of our walking shoes and folding the rubber tops sideways, buckled over our ankles. They were hot and awkward and a pain to pull on and off. The tops chafed against legs unless pant cuffs were tucked in to provide a buffer. At some point those rubbers would get snagged on barbed wire as we hopped a fence, and they’d spring a leak. We’d come home with a “soaker” and the next morning at breakfast be greeted with the sight of an empty bread bag tucked into the top of each waiting boot. Ironically, sticking your foot into your shoe, shoe into a bread bag and bread bag into the boot actually went more  smoothly than without the bag. The problem was that unless the boot fit just so, your shoe now slid around as you walked. The bread bag inside a rubber became hot and sticky and sweaty, causing even more slippage and we struggled to accommodate the extra movement by almost skating with each step. In the cloak room at school, every third kid had those bread bag sandwiched feet at some point or another and we understood when somebody would kick their boots off with a sigh of relief and a stretching of damp toes. We all knew to turn the bread bags inside out to dry before recess, just as we knew to fold and save the waxed paper and the brown bags that held our lunch sandwiches. With luck, new boots would arrive on payday, however if the school year was nearly over and your feet were growing like the weeds in the ditch, often the decision was made to simply “make-do” for another month or two.

Even before coming back to the house this morning, my head as we walked was filled with sense memories: the smell of rubber boots and mud puddles and worms and fresh fertile sprouts. Wild pussy willows are nearly sprung; forsythia is smiling, and it looks like the woods will be filled with violets and toad lilies, soon to be followed by trilliums and Jack-in-the-pulpit; yawning and unfurling,  emerging from last year’s layer of rotted leaves into tiny patches of sunlight squinting through the achingly fresh greens of the treetops. I remember the delight of warm rains on a bare head, rivulets trickling through tousled morning hair, drops tickling the tips of my ears, landing sweetly in the corners of my mouth, sliding through the neck of my slicker. I remember tilting my head back, mouth open, eyes closed, feet scuffing through the roadside gravel, my nose full of wonder at the curious scents carried on the wind. I remember forgetting all about the bread bags in my boots, too mesmerised by the snuffling of small creatures in the underbrush and the anticipation of sighting a rainbow when the Sun would finally, inevitably return.

[nookishposts]

Managing Messages

It would appear that there is a sea change going on in my brain. Self-reflection seems to be a mid-life given and I believe that has ramped up for many of us during restricted pandemic conditions. Once we tired of bread making and Netflix binges and being unable to wear anything but buffet pants, many of us got contemplative; involuntary monks in retreats that needed dusting.

As a storyteller I listen a lot and try to see the funny in the foibles and fairy-tales of everyday living. We tell ourselves whatever we need to in order to get from place to place,between frustrations and surprises, for better or worse. Case in point : “I will eat this last cookie, in addition to the two I just had, because it would be silly to put the bag back in the cupboard with just one cookie left.” Please tell me it’s not just me....

Rules of comportment have changed a lot in the last year and we have been more often confronted with the quirks of our own company.  We examine the world through a lens of a necessarily more domestic perspective, noticing the dust dinosaurs under the bookshelf from our horizontal couch-lolling, seeing the cobwebs near the ceiling, remembering that we’d promised to freshen the cupboards with a coat of paint, and scrolling, scrolling, scrolling the hours away.

There are things I promised myself last November that I would spend the Winter doing; among them squats my own personal elephant-in-the-living-room; the actual work of assembling/organising some of my writing for publication. I have promised myself this every Autumn for the last 4 years, maybe more. Not following up has absolutely nothing to do with the pandemic and everything to do with the mixed messages in my early brain-wiring that I have managed until now to avoid reconciling. No, I am not blaming my parents for my failures; but I am finally acknowledging that they inadvertently gave me a puzzlement of fears to figure my way through. Analysis paralysis. That particular writing assignment is way overdue. I guess I have to start somewhere. 

My parents, both born pre-Depression grew up in financial poverty, in families that strove to keep them fed and sheltered rather than striving for the sake of striving itself. Neither finished school because it was just not a priority next to taking on some responsibility for keeping the families basic needs of living met. They were taught to keep their heads down and noses-to-the-grindstone, to never think of aspiring beyond their “station” in life or if they did, to keep it to themselves. Which I think they did. I don’t recall either of them ever talking about having dreams for themselves except in the most self-deprecating or pipe-dreaming kind of manner, as if dreams were to be sloughed off, abandoned to the past, along with childhood.

So I grew up the eldest child of two very hard-working people whose attitudes combined in a united defensive front against those they’d been taught to believe were their “betters”; people like academics, doctors, and politicians. People of means, likely inherited. People of power and influence, genetically programmed to screw the little guy. Seriously. 

I was a dreamer from the get-go. I had a hearty imagination fuelled by a belief in magic and a natural disinclination to follow the rules, a deeply curious little kid who had a knack for remembering and a sense of wonder at the world itself. My parents, like most of their generation were more concerned that I be prepared for harsh reality than for questioning the status quo. I too was to work hard, keep my head down, and not entertain any real ambition for fear of life beating it out of me. They both knew how to laugh and were not without creativity, but all of it was directed and drained off in matters of pure practicality. 

Mixed messages have dogged me ever since, though I have long been of an age where I know it is my responsibility to  unravel things for myself. Distilled, the messages that I carry are as follows: from Dad it was “who the hell do you think you are with your book-learning and big words? You think you are better than us? The hell you are!” And from Mum it was: “Well, good for you, but don’t get used to success because it doesn’t ever last.”  Both attitudes came from fear, his from being usurped or found wanting and hers from being afraid of serial disappointment. Translated in my brain, those echoing, looping messages have kept me from believing it is okay to just take a grand leap of faith in myself. Good lord, what if I fail and embarrass us all?! The child in my brain wrestles with the adult who logically knows there are no guarantees either way, but that to do nothing is also futile.

I am a storyteller. My maternal grandparents were too. I read from a very young age and made up my own stories, even inventing a couple of imaginary friends to take along on my adventures. In school, I loved to read and write and went through systematic progressive phases of writing poetry and one-act plays and folk songs and short fiction. As an adult, I have written as therapy, for myself and for others of my generation who can relate to the things we all go through but I am willing to write and often laugh about. Writing is confession, and community, and collective consciousness. For me it’s most often spontaneous, off-the-cuff riffs about flushed car keys and public prat falls. Stories are how I make sense of the World, as well as the world of possibility. I write, I send it out like a flimsy paper airplane and hope it doesn’t crash too soon.

This past Winter I was all set to organise the many musings that I have blurted out on Facebook, in my blog, as a result of writing groups and workshops and the encouragement of kind readers. I wanted to prepare for publication a collection of mostly lighthearted observational spit-takes and rim-shots. But I didn’t do it. Every time I sat down, I would find a distraction to wander towards instead of the focus I needed to cobble my pieces (literal and figurative) together.  I have watched friends publish works over the past two years and been so very proud and thrilled for them, admiring of and inspired by what they have done. Yet, I seem paralyzed in my own attempts.  They tell me this is quite normal, this abject terror of imposter-ing, of discovering that I am just not any good at what I love so much that it is a significant part of my identity and therefore too personal to withstand the possibility of repeated wounds of rejection.

Possibility. It’s a double-edged sword  of a word if ever there was one. We could fall. Or we could fly. The net between the two is full of holes.

I hear the words again; “who do you think you are?” and “don’t get used to it” and they stop me in my tracks, they burst the shiny pink bubble of joy that comes with delicious combinations of sounds and ideas, and I drop to the ground in a heap, feeling simply foolish, embarrassed to be caught dreaming. But I am a big girl, and I know full well that the real joy is in the doing, and the real fear is in the letting go...in sending those bubbles of joyous play and pondering out to fend for themselves in a world where most are shot out of the sky with a sharp stone from the slingshot of publishers simply trying to dig through a constant avalanche of submissions to find their own diamond..a money-maker that will keep the rent paid and the doors open. It’s really  just a different degree of striving isn’t it?

I don’t ever expect to make much money from writing, although between copy-writing and biographies, I do make some. I would like to find the guts to write one really good book made up of many quirky little parts, something that other people could enjoy and relate to. (Yes,I’d settle for a bathroom book.)The very best part for me about telling a story are the stories that other people tell in response..that lovely, luscious, leveller of hearing “me too!” makes me feel like I’ve accurately described our human-ness. It’s that thing connects us all.

I’ve read lots advice from writers I admire...all the bits about getting my ass into a chair and just DOING it, letting a good editor chip the mud away from the motherlode, and suspending self-criticism in deference to those people paid to do it as their part of the journey toward publication. I have researched the publishers who accept the kind of work I think I write (that definition is hard!) and I have several versions of my elevator-pitch all ready to go. I have a ton of material to be shaped, and another ton in my head yet to be written down. What I am currently working on, the linchpin to all the rest, is courage. And perhaps a refresh button on my discipline. I really want to do this in spite of and perhaps to some degree, because of those old worn thin mixed messages. Wish me well.

[nookishposts]

Old Noises

 Reality smacks me upside the head sometimes. Usually when I have deliberately avoided  paying attention. Walking our ageing lab along our quiet country road yesterday, I discovered a new twinge. It’s been a very long Winter and there are always a few creaks and groans of bodily re-invigoration to work out as Spring arrives; I keep active in my way, but  admittedly this past few months I have given in to the luxury of laziness. I gained some pandemic pounds (that’s my excuse) expanding both my waistline and my Netflix repetoire, marvelled at gorgeous wedding-cake snowfalls and grumbled about shovelling through them, cooked up and subsequently ate my way through all kinds of fun bread recipes, and was pretty content to be mostly employed from home. However, yesterday the twang of an unhappy piriformis shot down my right leg as I was climbing the stairs. In other words, I got zapped with a giant pain in the ass. My own. Ugh.... Some stretching will sort it out; my chiropractor said the hip joint is fine, just highly irritated. Well, that makes two of us!

I will turn 60 later this year. I wasn’t the slightest bit ruffled by turning 30, 40, or 50, but this one...something is different. I no longer bounce the way I used to, physically or any other way. I make old noises when I get out of bed in the morning to the point where I sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies with a few Pop Rocks thrown in. 60 isn’t old, but a few of my joints may beg to differ after many years of physical demands from an overly-bountiful voluptuous body. Impatience has meant that sometimes, I don’t work smart, just hard. And I have no illusions about being a life-long klutz, various trips and scrapes have left me with some scars that have stories I can dine out on till I’m 90 if I make it that far. So, I could star in my own scratch-n-dent sale, complete with padded landing gear. I digress.

Along with a little physical caution and extra maintenance, the other phenomenon I notice is an emotional one. My stiff upper lip sags as much as my backside these days. My eyes leak over the silliest most sentimental things. The bold fortitude of a woman who worked some pretty stressful social service situations is long gone, as is her energy for answering emergency calls at 3am. Was that brash kid really ever me? I recall watching my grandmother becoming more vulnerable as she aged, and am watching the same thing happen to my 82 year old Mum. Some stuff they became content to let themselves just enjoy, but other things niggled at them and they didn’t like too many surprises. I find that I think about things I never used to; like, what if my truck dies on a country road somewhere and I can’t get a cell signal? I can’t turn that into a cross-country Huckleberry adventure as I once would have. The truck is just fine, I’m projecting. Staying overnight now requires I pack meds and a CPAP. No more the spontaneous crash on any old couch.  Did I remember my reading glasses? Where are the Tums? The Sensodyne? The non-slip soles? Beer has just become bloat.  Certain food groups are to be avoided before public gatherings now, lest a surprise trumpet  sounds at an inopportune lull in the conversation. Or when I’m tying my shoe. Or lifting a 40 lb bag of dog food. Or laughing too hard. Sheesh.

I think about friends I saw for the last time, not knowing it would be the last time. I think about Stuff I wish I’d said when I had the opportunity. I think about the fact  that 12 years ago we were talking about building straw bale sustainably off grid (took all the courses and helped others to build)  but 18 mos ago settling for a very plain 12 year old bungalow we could retro-fit was a smarter choice, especially landing among like-minded neighbours our age who are happy to share their labour-saving toys with the distressed (not really) damsels from the city. I think about what an amazing 60 years of adventure and travel and  experience it has been...and how incredibly lucky I am to aim for another 25 if I take better care of my chassis. When I can’t climb 4 steps without a pain in the ass, shit is getting real. When a trip to town has me packing extra gloves and a shovel , and thinking about which grove of trees I could stop to pee in if I absolutely have to...well..I understand my Grandma and my Mum a little better now. Diddly-squats just aren’t simple any more, y’know? 

I think 60 has me finally figuring out that anything could happen at any time, and we can’t always be ready for it or count on recovering like we were once so damned sure we could. The truth is, things have always sprung from nowhere and knocked us sideways, but we seem to see the potential for tripping over our own feet in way we never noticed before. Life is all about love and loss and learning, including learning from our mistakes and becoming more cautious about making the same ones again.  We do our best until we learn to do better. And until we fully realise just how much there is to lose. Including ourselves and one another. Perhaps we also learn to forgive..ourselves most of all.

I can walk and work off some of that Winter weight gain, but I’ll wear the non-slip soles and make sure somebody knows where I went in case I’m late for supper. I can drink wine or whisky instead of beer, and less of either. I can have the farty foods when I know I will be working at home, preferably outdoors. I can tell my friends and family what they mean to me, in an email  letter if not face to face. I can make all the Rice Krispy noises in the world every morning because it means I can still get out of bed and I still want to. I can be grateful, because 60 isn’t very old but it’s helping me figure stuff out. I still wanna be that old coot in overalls with a roadside stand of fresh eggs and veggies and pickles and jam, so I’d better make sure I know enough to impart unsolicited advice along with the  produce or I will blow the stereotype all to bits. We can’t have that. Best I get started then, cause having a pain in the ass doesn’t mean I need to be one.

[nookishposts]

Pause

It’s been awhile between blog posts.

There have been lots of things to write about but I have found myself really challenged to actually translate thoughts and feelings into words. I think a whole lot of people have.  2020 into 2021 has been a year of the steepest learning curve; when everything and everybody has had to shift through the prism filter of a pandemic. We have all stumbled forward, uncertain, confused, our senses and sensibilities tested by persistent alterations in such ordinary things as grocery shopping and haircuts. If we are honest, we know there will be no “going back”. We are not really at war with anything but our own assumptions..and perhaps understanding what a luxury it has been even to have them.

A child of the 1960s, beneficiary of post-vaccine development, I could never have dreamed of the day when a hug might be dangerous...and so much of daily routine would need to be at least 6 feet away, with a mask and a lot of hand sanitiser in the space in between. In the past year, the World has become both bigger and smaller. There’s a virus that doesn’t care about one bit about geography, infiltrating even the most remote of places, and yet forcibly uniting us in our vulnerability as well as our responsibility. Of course we will come out the other side, things will get better; we will see our families face to face and be able to travel again. Conspiracy theories aside, it should be an obvious and straightforward path through a shadowy forest. Except it’s not. We’ve been  slowed down enough to see actual faces in the shadows; sometimes there are mirrors among the trees, reflecting back to us things we have managed to ignore, minute and momentous, not the least of which is the privilege of self-righteous indignation.

It is so seductively easy to settle into a personal groove of work and home, a schedule of self-determined priorities, to keep our heads down and our focus tight. Until something unexpected comes along that says we can’t do it our way any more; that our focus must become less about personal preference and more about collective safety, that we each have a role to play in a picture much bigger than our own. Cries of perceived personal rights violations have tried to drown out the soothing hum of rational and practical evidence-based sense. The World is sick. We have to help it heal. Here’s a mask, some soap and a few common sense guidelines. It’s really not asking too much, right? Unless you are an anti-masker, anti-vaxer, or person whose financial and political privilege has convinced you that you are beyond the scope of the rules.

We are more than a year in. Everybody is tired. Against the backdrop of a global pandemic precautions that dismantle small-business and independent livelihoods, that steals the actual lives of across-the-board good folks just trying to get from day to day, Life itself has had the audacity to persist; in births, deaths, violence, poverty, homelessness,hunger, celebration and sorrow. We can no longer ignore the festering issues we’ve been rushing past on our way through the forest. The strain of pandemic times has brought to a scalding boil the long-standing simmer of fear that manifests as anger. Like frustrated children we lash out and seek to blame somebody, anybody, for rousing us from a slumbering panacea of okay-ness into a grumpy, collective awakening toward how much community responsibility we have abandoned as we’ve been overwhelmed into sleep-walking. 

Like every crisis, this one also brings opportunity. I think in fact we have surprised ourselves with certain kinds of resilience and creative solution. We are doing things the pols have said for years could not be done: working from home, reducing congestion, creating alternative education pathways, supporting local economy as we stay closer to home. The methods are flawed, but fascinating and full of potential. We’ve planted gardens; in yards and balconies and windowsills, reminding ourselves that we can coax bounty from barren-ness given the right seeds and a bit of effort. Can we not take those reminders of our innate survivalism and grow them too? Bigger gardens, plus more willing hands, equals feeding more people..in spirit as well as in body. Can we apply the same cooperative space and willingness to long-term care legislation, to local business incentives, to ensuring clean water and affordable housing, to mental health supports and sustainable infrastructure for the most vulnerable among us? Can we not recognise the everyday heroism of those front-line folk who cannot work from home and compensate them not just with financial fairness but also by investing in their personal and practical support ? We have been politically barn-stormed into apathetic compliance, into believing  we have no influence left. But as we make our slow and stumbling  way through this latest forest, what are we seeing in the shadows and the mirrors? We see that one road doesn’t bring  enough light to really see by, that pathways need to be cleared all directions so we can reach those left in the shadows by the moneyed bulldozer that  came through carving  only the path of least resistance. We have always had the time and the resources. We must create the will to effect them. When a global tsunami hits and we are tested, we get resourceful, we learn how to tread water, then navigate through the shock waves to higher, drier ground from which the bigger view appears. We look back and see what needs to be done. We’ve been here before. The pandemic has given us the latest opportunity to seek higher ground and clearer perspective. What will it take to effect what we do with it? 

I hope that you have kept your head above water and have what you need to stay healthy. I know you have committed many acts of kindness, large and small. I know you have kept an eye on your neighbour. I know you have suffered losses and carry new fears in your pocket. Mostly I know you are exhausted by where we find ourselves now. Me too. Amid the grand-standers and the angry shouting, the whisper of hope is comprised of many more voices, which means a groundswell of fertility and real,  practical action is also within hearing. I can still call out to you from 6 feet away. I can also hear you, and the ones on either side, behind and ahead of us as well. We can  encourage one another as we begin to plant better seeds in the ground right where we stand. We can step off the proscribed path and create a bit of light by not being so afraid of ineffectual energies that we fail to address the shadows. It’s okay to find yourself uncomfortable in the mirror, but look over your own shoulder and see that the rest of us are still reflected within your view. All of us. Surely we can make something out of that much. 

[nookishposts]

Stargazes

A couple of nights ago, driving home on a quiet secondary highway right around midnight, we saw a very bright falling star. Falling, because it curved downwards as opposed to zinging sideways in a streak across the sky. Where we live, we are fortunate to have minimal light pollution and therefore when the skies are clear, the view is breath-catching. I am slowly endeavouring to re-learn the basic constellations and planets, but most often simply find myself staring in wonderment at a zillion points of light that began many many years before they became visible to us. The sheer time and distance that light has to travel in order to diamond-stud the night skies and leave us open-mouthed beneath it is unfathomable. That so many of those stars have burned themselves out long before their light is visible to Earth seems sad, but that a ball of gases leaves such an impact as to resonate long after it’s demise is poetically perfect. Considering the immeasurable Universe leaves me feeling deliciously insignificant in the greater scheme of things, relieves me of silly minutiae stresses but also very conscious of the fleeting time we have been given to achieve any lasting impact, and how carefully we might treat the opportunity. We are stardust after all; magical but prettily finite.

In the stars. Stars in our eyes. The stars have aligned. Star-struck.Starry-eyed.Shooting star. Falling star. Star-gazing. Special, noteworthy, mystical, and wondrous even in their science.

 I’ve met a few stars in my lifetime; not just celebrities but people who themselves seem to shine with a special light. Sometimes it comes across as wisdom, sometimes as purity or innocence, sometimes as sheer delight and ingenuity. Certain people we meet exude a vibe that stands out. Often they are entrepreneurs in their willingness to take a chance on themselves; most of us don’t have the same kind of confidence that it takes to be our own boss and bottom line, never mind the leadership and stresses that come with it. Or the energy. It takes a certain spark of passion and drive to boldly go.

The 2020 pandemic has brought a number of these folks to their knees. Small businesses especially for they depend on social interaction and community support that have been much harder to for the rest of us to give. We have become careful and conservative with our spending as our own incomes have been victims of uncertainty; the World is different than what we have become accustomed to and shopping is a much more conscious event than ever. No more face to face sales conversations with clients, and no more dawdling in the aisles. Impulse buying is way down, with perhaps the exception of online big-box browsing out of boredom and enforced distance. All kinds of industries have been affected, but just as small businesses define the flavours and cadences of a neighbourhood, so do we as their patrons keep them alive and growing.

I have a number of friends who run their own show, sometimes single-handed, and they have all been hit hard. No matter how exceptional your product or service, if you can’t sell it and re-invest the profits, the whole carefully-crafted machine grinds to a halt. Financial struggles come and go as the price of doing business, but when extraordinary circumstances are entirely beyond your control and you are forced to fall back on the few feathers in your own nest, it gets scary and painful. Most storefronts have re-opened by this time, but so many of them were closed longer than they  were able to afford to be and have since been lost to harsh but practical reality.  I’ve watched smart, capable, creative and socially-conscious stars go from glitter to ghost. We mourn them and we wonder what more we might have done to keep them alight, while understanding that we too have had our unexpected limits. When even shelters, clinics and community meals to keep the disenfranchised and marginalised safer and fed have become a thing of the past, we are in trouble. Turning parks into campgrounds and delivering meals from the back of a vehicle is a short-term option but we have Winter coming and then what? Invest in on-line community visioning and help get the creative juices flowing. Profit takes many forms, not just financial. Hoarders remain a very small minority in a society of mostly really wonderful community-minded people who want to see others thrive. Ironically, it’s these same small businesses that I believe will be our saving grace, that is if we can invest enough in them to keep them alive. Restaurants have explored curbside service, adjusted their patios, and reconfigured their seating areas to stay open, and it’s working. Purchasing gift certificates from small businesses so they have income now is another great initiative. Sharing resources of equipment and goods between businesses have lowered costs a little and increased communication. There are things we can do, even if it’s just to poke our heads in the door and say “I’m glad you are still here” its a step in the right direction. One organization in Toronto has been giving classes online in exchange for donations and using those donations to help neighbouring businesses pay their rent. That’s ingenuity and kindness at work. Please, do whatever you are able, to help the indy businesses, they need us now more than ever.

I have watched a couple of women dear to me do everything in their power to keep going in their up-to-March-of-2020 successful enterprises, and still have to face the fact that it’s not enough. Their doors have closed, but not their hearts and spirits. They blame no one. They grieve but don’t wallow. They are already looking forward, figuring out how to apply their talents and ideas in brand new ways. They are Mothers of Invention spurred into action by a necessity they never could have dreamed of when they were dreaming up their projects. There is no going back, so they focus their light forward and take a breath. Stars fall, but their light goes on for a long time afterwards. It continues to travel, astound, inspire, and give us pause for reflection. Dreams burn brightly, but when they die, they can perhaps make room for more dreams. They are fed by the light that came before in creating a new fire, with passion, with hope, with hard work, and a bit of magic. The Ancients saw falling stars as omens of change and they paid close attention to whatever was coming to alter the village. A child learns that sometimes they will fall, and it hurts, but they usually figure out how to get back up again and sometimes become quite proud of their scars. Falling need not be the end of the light.

So. You know what you must do. Believe in the promise of the stars, maybe become one yourself. Support the ones in your neighbourhood and encourage the upstarts. With your dollars and your practical help. Small businesses will be our saving grace in an uncertain world that has us sticking closer to home and re-discovering our own resourcefulness. Regularly go to the places where they know your name, what you drive, what size you wear and how you take your coffee. Those are the stars who will keep the light burning bright no matter how dark the night becomes.