The Annual Drive

Christmas Eve, and all that is left of the church service is the smell of smoking wick from several dozen candles, and murmurs from the little pockets of conversation as people leave the building. 

We pack up our things and load them in the vehicle, and drive home to unload them before piling into it again for the Annual Drive.

2013

Someone brings a Christmas CD. We put it in the player and take off to view the Christmas lights in and around our city. In some areas it seems that folks try to outdo each other to create jaw-dropping displays. Others are more quiet, understated, and yet hopeful ... a few electric candles in the window, the muted twinkling of the Christmas tree from inside the house, showing through the window. 

As the music plays, we join in the singing, each one putting in his or her part until we feel the stirring of that elusive Christmas spirit in our hearts. 

After about an hour or so, we head back and we have something hot to drink - a little cocoa usually, topped with marshmallow bits. We watch our own Christmas lights reflect and twinkle amid the decorations. We turn on some soft music (or we tune in to the Fireplace Channel) and we sip our warm drinks and enjoy each other's company. Later, we might watch a Christmas movie on TV before turning in for the night.

We have done this tradition for over 20 years. Last year, we did it with one less among us ... so we asked a close friend to join us. We felt free to feel what we felt, no matter what that was. And we will again this year. 

This year, we don't have the luxury that the initial numbness (shock) of the loss brought. Its cold, harsh reality seems to dare us to plunge into the abyss. But a big part of Christmas is about never needing to be alone again. So, we reach out to others, and we share what we have. And though it feels ... different ... we can still be grateful, still know peace, still laugh and enjoy quality time together. Not just this night, but any night we want to. 

Because we're family. Because we love each other. Just because.

And counting...

Well, it's finally here. 

Three hundred and sixty-four days ago, on the evening of the day we found out about her passing, we had no clue that we'd have made it this far. "The day the police came" is now family code for the day our lives turned upside down with the sudden death of our little girl at the tender age of 21 years. 

I've written so much about her here on this blog that no doubt you feel that you know her; that was my intent. To know her is to be changed by her. She was - and is - a force of nature. Learning her story is transformational. Telling it reminds me of the things she taught me just by being herself and going to the mat for people. 

The past year has been one I've spent counting. Counting the days at first ... six days since she passed. Ten. Twelve. (Every Wednesday was agony. The sleep wouldn't come until after 1 a.m. most nights.) Then I counted the weeks - two, three, four, five, six... thirteen - interspersed with months... each one seemed to drag by until it was over and then I would look back and say, "I can't believe it's been four months." Or six. Or eight. 

A trusted friend, one I've known now for 13 years, told me at the beginning of this process that the time would come when I'd stop counting the weeks, stop noticing it was Wednesday. 

I didn't believe him. 

But he was mostly right. Time has a way of ticking away and the tyranny of the urgent sometimes becomes a bit of a comfort; busy-ness can sometimes get one's mind off things and give it a bit of a break from the harsh realities of loss. 

But it doesn't diminish its intensity. 

What has healed me most has been the love and loving expressions of support and friendship that I've experienced - at first in a flood back last fall, and more lately in odd comments that this one or that one will make - comments that remind me that people haven't forgotten. They haven't forgotten me, my family, and best of all, they haven't forgotten her. 

This is the counting that - for the most part - I have taken to doing now. I count the expressions of love, the kind deeds (like the apple someone brought me today because she heard that I liked one once in a while and because she knew it was a tough day), the emails and Facebook chats, the posts on her wall and on mine - the snowflakes left on her stone today from three special people ... and the list goes on, and on, and on. 

These are the things I count now. Time does march on ... but love brings music and gratitude and peace. I count friends ... friends who sincerely care and who show it, as she did. I count remembrances of her. I count friends of hers who loved her dearly and who now - for reasons I can't quite explain - love me too. I count songs that she loved or that remind me of her personality or her beauty or her feisty in-your-face defense of her friends - or her ability to make others laugh... sometimes just by bursting out laughing long and loud and strong ... for no reason at all. And her laugh was so contagious. So very contagious. Even when I was angry at her, I couldn't help laughing with her.

Days like today are very hard. I won't deny it. But as love goes on and on, I am not counting the days ... but the signs of life that I see springing up where she has walked. The changed lives, the transformed attitudes, the seeds of hope and faith and love she planted that are now bearing fruit: these are the things that I count. 

Because THEY count.



Oh!  PS: This was actually one video that Arielle texted to me, but my cell phone broke it into two videos. It was created around the first of September 2013, about six weeks before she passed away. I've been waiting for the right time to share it with my readers. This seemed like a good time.  I apologize for any poor picture quality.

Part 1:

aaaand part 2. 

Never too late

One day, not too awfully long ago, I was standing at a wicket at the Department of Motor Vehicles and waiting for someone to process a form, when I saw the most peculiar sight at the next wicket. Two people were standing there - the family resemblance and the ages told me that it was probably a grandfather and grandson. 

"Oh isn't that sweet," I thought to myself. "Someone is getting his first driver's license." 

I started to listen in on the conversation. The two men beside me were both Korean. The woman was speaking to the younger man, who looked to be about 16. He was acting as an interpreter for the older man (who looked to be about 70) who was paying the money to the counter attendant. And that's when I heard it. "Make sure he knows that this license is good for two years, and it expires on his birthday," she told the younger man. "So he will need to come in here before that date to renew it." 

The young man promised. The older man put the newly acquired license as well as the receipt in his wallet, murmured a "Thank you," to the woman, and the two of them made their way out of the building.

I thought about those two for the rest of the day. What a proud moment for them both! I found myself picturing the process they had just been through - wondering how much the younger had to convince the older that he could do this.  I thought about how this teenager was probably with the older man every step of the way as he learned the rules of the road enough to take his beginner's test, acting as interpreter the whole time. He may have gone out with him multiple times as he practiced. Finally, he went with his granddad when he was taking the road test (acting as interpreter for the instructions of the examiner). And that very day as I was there beside him, he got his 'graduated' license, something that sixteen-year-olds look forward to, dream about, and long for in our culture. 

We take it for granted. 

What an inspiration they both were - the young man for the commitment he showed, the caring that was obviously there on his face - and the time he took to be there for his grandfather. And the older man inspired me, reminded me that it's never too late to make a new start, to learn a new thing. Never mind that he only had a few years left to enjoy this new freedom he would now enjoy; the point was that he would be able to enjoy it. 

Over the last while I've had some doubts about how feasible it is for me to get my education in preparation for a new career. I'm in my fifties and to go to school with people who are less than half my age is somewhat off-putting. I enjoy the learning part (even if it scary at times) but sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it. And then I remember that old Korean man. So many strikes against him - the language barrier and his age being the top two - and yet he persevered because he saw value in having that license so he could help his family and possibly even so that he would not be a burden to them. 

It's never too late. No matter how much less time I would have than someone half my age, what matters is that I enjoy the rest of my life and that I'll be able to help as many people as I will be able to help. Me. Not my age, not my appearance, but me. With all the life experience that I bring to the table, I know that when I finally graduate (which won't be for a few years yet) I will be uniquely positioned to be able to help people to find their own pathway to freedom, to "get unwrapped."

And I guess it reminds me of another thing. 

I'm really looking forward to getting MY license, too.

Photo "Psychiatrist Examining A Male Patient"
courtesty of Ambro at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Letter to Arielle

Your sister and you (in 2008)
knowing that I was going to take a picture.

Good morning sweetheart.

It dawned on me last night before bed that I didn't write on your wall yesterday - for the first time since we learned of your accident ... on October 22, 2013. 

But ... I know you don't mind, because it means that I'm starting to heal. Just a little tiny bit. A friend shared with me yesterday in a way I could understand inside my heart ... that you want me and your dad and your sister(s) and everyone - ALL who love you - to comprehend that you are supremely happy and safe and at Home where you now are. Deliriously happy... beyond human understanding. And that you still want us to be happy, to look after ourselves, to look after each other, to enjoy every day of our lives. Every. Single. Day. Like you did. 

Even when things were tough.

I remember how just a few weeks ago,I texted you as you were living in your car, like I did several times a day. That week, I was SO not looking forward to Thanksgiving. It had always been a family meal, with you sitting across from me at the table and stuffing you mouth as full as you could get it, as full of as many parts of the meal as you could get in there, until your cheeks were puffed out ... that I just couldn't get into the holiday now that you were homeless, running on empty all the time, waking up freezing every morning. :(  

I told you I was seriously considering cancelling Thanksgiving. 

You wouldn't hear of it.

"Oh Mom. Don't give up your Thanksgiving spirit. I'm here and I don't have much. But I'm still thankful for what I have. You and my family and friends. So don't give up on Thanksgiving. Please." Your attitude gave me the strength to at least do a chicken up and have someone over for a meal.

And now you are gone from us.

You KNOW that I ... we ALL ... miss you. You KNOW that. You have watched us as we've been broken, shattered because of losing you from this earth. But as we are learning even more how incredibly amazing you were while you were here, we're starting to see life, and people, the way you do. That's your legacy. What a tremendous gift! I wanna thank you, princess. So. Much.

Here's what we're learning.... SO far. 

It doesn't matter whether a person is "red or yellow, purple, green, black or white or in between" as we used to parody "Jesus loves the little children of the world". (And you'd roll your eyes, teasing us.) It didn't matter to you if someone was gay or straight, male or female or something else, overweight or rake-thin or anything in between, Christian or atheist or Buddhist, wore a 3-piece suit or a thong.  You accepted people. ALL people. You loved them - you loved us all - just the way we were: warts and all. 

You hated it when people took themselves too seriously, more concerned with appearances and protocol than they were about compassion and mercy, about celebrating who somebody was. You hated hypocrisy and condemnation; you'd gotten too much of it in your short life and you knew how that felt. Thank God there is no condemnation at all where you are. 

You gave of yourself until it hurt; you seriously went without ... to the point of giving up food, clothing, toys, money ... so that others could have. Over and over I am hearing the stories now. The lives you touched. The hearts you mended. Your deeds - done in secret - are now being proclaimed loud and long.

And now it's YOUR turn to be given to. For all eternity. Although ... I am pretty sure you'd find a way to give it all back. ;)

I saw a new post on your Facebook wall this morning from one of your old crew here - Anthony - his first time on your wall since the accident. He told you that he remembered how you were there for him after he had a bad motorbike accident last year ... an accident that made him unable to walk for quite a while. How you went to see him in the hospital ... and worked so hard to get him outside of himself (and his house) after he went back home and got into physiotherapy. 

That's so typical of you. 

You inspire everybody who knew you. You inspire me.
I only hope that someday I am worthy of the lessons you are teaching me.

Love,
Mom

Fully fledged

In the life of a young bird, there comes a stage when it gets its flying feathers. Over time, the baby fuzz is replaced by firm feathers - including wing feathers that will be rigid enough to ride on air currents and support the weight of the bird. 

Until that happens, the baby bird spends more and more of its time - still in its nest - flapping its wings, exercising those muscles. Yet it still can't sustain flight. During the stage in which the adult feathers grow in, the bird is said to "fledge," and when there is no more fuzz, it is called full-fledged, or fully fledged. 

Sometimes a bird, even though it's been practicing in the nest and has even managed to lift itself up into the air a bit, still seems to want to stay in the nest; perhaps it is afraid of falling. Eventually, the baby fuzz that's been falling out will blow away from the nest and the rough sticks get more and more uncomfortable. 

Thanks to Jeff Ratcliffe at
www.freedigitalphotos.net for his
photo, "Eagle In Flight"

Before long, the desire to leave the safety of the nest is stronger than the fear of falling - and the bird takes that leap of faith into the invisible, making short flights to the ground, up to branches (or in the case of an eagle, rock ledges), landing on neighboring trees or other suitable perches. At this point, it doesn't leave the protection of its parents but continues to learn to use its wings and to feed itself by watching its mother and father. It only takes a few weeks to learn these skills. Many birds do maintain that family relationship. The family group is a great source of security. And some - just fly away to establish their own territory.

I guess that lately, I've been going through that transition period where the young one has left the nest but is still somewhat dependent, learning all she can to be self-sufficient, strengthening her wing muscles. It's a thrilling but frightening time (for both of us!) and both my daughter and I have been learning a lot from the experience. So far, she's traveled across the country nearly to the other side, lived in someone's car (with them and later with their permission), found a job, faced transportation issues to and from work, shopped for a second-hand car, hunted for an apartment, ... and the list is ongoing. While she's been having all these experiences thousands of miles away, my heart has been traveling with her, praying for her, supporting her, talking her down when she's upset, suggesting options when she's been out of her depth. I even talked her through preparing a chicken dinner for a lady who let her stay with her the first of this week! (And I'm not sure who was more pleased with the results - her or me!)

As someone in recovery from control-freaking and from obsessive care-taking, there's a fine line between letting go and abandonment, just as there is between being there for my child and trying to make her choices for her. It truly is a process where I, like she was when she was in my nest, have been growing my own feathers. 

I can see the day quickly approaching where she will have learned enough to be able to be self-sufficient. I am so proud of all that she has accomplished so far, and I believe in her ability to make it on her own. It's a process for her and it's a process for me too. As I support her in this transition while slowly letting go and allowing her to make her own choices and reap her own consequences, I grow another feather myself. 

And yes, I've been doing a lot of flapping, even some short hovers, and - admittedly - a fair bit of squawking. ;) 

Before long though, I'll make that leap myself - out into the unknown - and find that the invisible is strong enough to carry me too.

TL4E

Hubby listening to someone
tell a story

Today I celebrate thirty-two years of marriage with a man I love more and more as time goes on. In a day when even TWO years seems the breaking-point for some, some folks marvel at our time together and wonder what our secret is, given all we've been through together.

The key word is together - it is not some great secret. We are best friends first, and while each of us has his or her own interests, many of them overlap and we can share them and enjoy each other in the sharing. We spend our spare time together. We agreed long ago that any lengthy social event that would separate us (especially overnight), even if it were to be touted as "good" - was not something that the person invited would attend. This has not been a sacrifice for us, but a happy choice, because it gives us more time with each other. That time is precious to us because there are so many mandatory things that demand our time (work, for example) that we treasure the opportunities we have to spend time with each other - even if it's sitting in a room saying nothing while each is doing something different on the computer.

Together we have faced so many things better than we would ever have done apart: for example, among other things, severe financial difficulty, early parenthood, and family-of-origin issues for both of us, not to mention the frustrations inherent in working with others (misunderstandings, people playing politics, bullying, fatigue). We support each other and gain strength from each other. We pray with and for each other. We put each other's needs before our own. We don't approach the relationship from the perspective, "What can I get out of this?" but rather, "What can I give?"

That's love. TL4E - True Love 4 Ever.

If there's a secret, it's that love is not about getting what you want, but giving what you dare not keep.

Happy anniversary, sweetheart.  ♥ 

Reviving an old tradition

There are many things about my childhood I would just as soon forget; I've talked about those memories from time to time, and I won't talk about them in this post. 

There was one tradition I observed when I was growing up, however, that has stayed with me all of my life. I'm not even sure if it's still done anymore in the area in which I grew up, but it was so meaningful that it stayed with me.

Two days a year, Mother's Day and Father's Day, people wore a carnation boutonniere or corsage to church so as to "honor" their parents. If the parent was still living, the flower would be red; if not, it would be white. I remember my parents kept a collection of plastic corsages in the top drawer between the fridge and the sink, right beside the tea towels. Every year, they'd dust them off and each person would be given a flower of the appropriate color to wear on either the second Sunday of May or the third Sunday of June. 

They used plastic flowers, because it was too expensive to use real ones.

When I married and moved to my husband's province, the locals had never heard of this custom. They thought it rather sweet, but strange as well. 

I did it anyway. 

Several years ago, the church we attended started handing out carnations to all the mothers in the church on Mother's Day. It was May 1989, and I was pregnant with our first child. Since our denomination believes that life begins at conception, I stood in line to get a flower. "No," I was told. "You're not a mother." 

Hurt and bewildered, I found my seat again. I never forgot the sting of that remark; even though I have forgiven it, and even forget who said it, the experience made me resolve never to treat a first-time pregnant mom like that ... ever.  

But I digress. As the church handed out the flowers to moms anyway, I got away from wearing a flower on that Sunday morning and instead, I made a corsage out of the one I was given at the morning service to wear that evening. 

Nowadays, for various reasons, Mother's Day is very painful for me, but I thought I could at least remember my dad. And since my kids don't go to church - for their own reasons - I thought I would honor their father as well, because - well - he's an awesome dad!

They have that in common, in different ways, but they also share a love of woodworking and especially of music. My dad sang bass (yes, I know the song) - and such a full, rich voice he had - and my husband sings baritone, almost the same thing but not quite. 

So tomorrow morning, and possibly tomorrow evening, I plan to wear a little something to commemorate my own father and my children's father. For posterity though, I thought I'd stage a symbolic photo as an extra tribute :

A lapel corsage
Two tiny roses - white (for Dad) and red (for Hubby)
surrounded by baby's breath (for purity of heart)
and rose leaves (for persevering love)
and sitting squarely on Middle C.

Happy Father's Day ... to both of you. 

Learning about living - from the dying

Thanks to a facebook friend, I read an article this morning from a British newspaper entitled "Top five regrets of the dying" which talks about a book written by an Australian palliative care nurse, Bronnie Ware:  The Top Five Regrets of the Dying.  (if the link doesn't work for you, it's because you're not on facebook... so my apologies in advance!)

Anyway, at the risk of 'spoiling' it for those who would have read the book, here are the top five, in order of importance, of things people wish they had done in their lives:

1.   I wish I'd lived a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
2.   I wish I hadn't worked so hard (in other words, I wish I hadn't spent so much time at work, furthering my career, and not enough time with my spouse and family).
3.   I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings.
4.   I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
5.   I wish I had let myself be happier.

This print is for sale at INMAGINE

Wow.  Truly the dying can teach us about how to live.  

I'd rather not wait until my death-bed to look back and regret what I could have done NOW.  So my response to the top five regrets of the dying is that it's high time I started living the way they wished they had!

In the last three years or so, I've learned more about how to live life unfettered, unwrapped from the grave-clothes of the past, and unashamed of my feelings, than at any other time in my life.  I really feel as though I am finally - after decades of being steeped in tradition, bound by rules and regulations, and hobbled by hypocrisy - learning how to really LIVE.  It's a heady, scary, delirious, amazing ride with lots of unexpected twists, climbs, and drops.  But it's living instead of just "making do" or "managing." It's living intentionally, not just reacting to circumstances.  

Things no longer "happen" to me. That's "victim-thinking." They just happen.  Period.  Living life in the moment, trusting God for the strength for today ... keeping it real, keeping first things first, expressing my feelings - these are the pillars of the lifestyle I'm learning to live. 

And I'm LIVING. What a trip!

In spite of the circumstances, when I look at my own happiness quotient (in other words, how happy I am) as compared to my life before this new day-by-day kind of living - I'm happier now than ever I was before, even on the bad days.  

And the happiness is spreading.  As I'm learning to be comfortable in my own skin-suit, I treat people around me differently... and now THEY are happier too. 

It's win-win.  For everyone.

And when someday I am facing the Grinning Reaper... I hope that I'll be able to grin right back.

Change by millimeters

Today I had another reminder of how gradual and almost imperceptible growth is. 

I'd been fretting about an upcoming event for weeks, because I knew it would place me in a situation which - all my life - I would avoid like the plague because it MIGHT be construed by someone (anyone, it doesn't matter who!) as confrontational.  And I hate confrontation.  There was a lot of preparation that went into it, and I got some really cool strategies for coping with the stress of the situation from someone who was way more seasoned a presenter than I am.

Well, today was the day.  And the event happened.  And not only did I not sit there like a bump on a log afraid to say anything, I spoke up.  And I held my own. And I wasn't afraid. Yes, I stumbled over some of my words, but you know what? the world didn't cave in on me when I struggled to express myself.  

And - truth be told - the whole thing went pretty well.  

Surprise!  (Well, nobody there was more surprised than I was at how much I said and how calm I was!)  I thought afterward (about myself and my performance today), "Who was that person? and how can I get to know her?" 

But I reminded myself that I entered this new realm, took this new endeavor upon myself in order to "stretch" me. Indeed, I discovered how much I had already been "stretched" by growing in my own recovery and getting comfortable inside my own skin the last few years - without even knowing it!!  

It's been in increments - in millimeters - and at times it's felt so slow, almost glacial.  But it's been happening nonetheless.  And it's days like today that show me just how far I've come in what (in hindsight) has been such a short time compared to the "before" picture of uncertainty, insecurity, fear, and anxiety - which took decades to create.  The change boggles my mind.

Calm.  Confidence.  Compassion.  Courage.  

The inner climate is warming. The glacier is moving.

Dominion Day

Happy Dominion Day everyone!

Thanks to Salvatore Vuono for his
photo, "British Flag" at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I use the old term for 'Canada Day' and yes, I choose the "Union flag" today to honour those Canadians who fought - many of whom died - under this flag.  Every war in which Canada participated (up until the institution of the Canadian flag in the mid-1950s) was fought under the standard of the British flag  -  "for king and country."  So I have a special spot in my heart for the original "red, white, and blue."

On the beaches of Normandy, it was the Union Jack that flew over the masts of the ships which brought wave after wave of Canadian troops, a good many of them to their deaths, to fight the enemy and help to end the war.

It was under the Union flag that my dad signed up just shortly before the Second World War ended.  It came to a close on both fronts as he was getting ready to go to the ship that would have taken him overseas.  

They changed the name of today's holiday from Dominion Day (which it was ever since its inception) only recently to Canada Day.  They said that it was to engender more patriotism - I'm not so sure.  I just think they got tired of having a reminder every year to the biblical principle on which this country was founded: that God would have dominion from sea to sea.  So I call July 1st Dominion Day; it's the way I was raised - even though I was born after the institution of the Canadian maple leaf flag.  

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not anti-Canadian; I'm a Canadian citizen and I love my country.  I am proud of the accomplishments and dedication of Canadians, from the field of science (remember Banting and Best, discoverers of insulin?) to our Canadian troops, past and present, wherever they served - or serve.  

My ancestors, though, were British loyalists who came to the Maritimes in 1789.  There is a long history of loyalism and royalism (if that's a word) in my family.  My father's ancestors were one of the founding families of the village where I grew up.  It's not anything for me to boast about - since I didn't do all those things and face those incredible challenges myself.  But it is part of the legacy that was left for me.  And so - I have a soft spot for the symbol that flew at the top of the flagpole and of the military standards during all those years. 

I choke up when I sing "O Canada."  My heart swells when I see the Canadian flag being raised at an international sports event (such as the Olympics) signifying that our athletes are among the best in the world.  I like it that Canadians are welcomed with open arms when we travel internationally.

I will celebrate the birth of our country today - both as a proud Canadian and a loyal British subject.