Reflections

Remembering Michael

Sixteen years ago I suffered a loss which I think about daily. Michael and I had met only a few years before that, and had fallen in love very quickly. We had similar values including kindness and mutual respect.

Yesterday I re-read the eulogy which his best friend wrote and delivered at Michael’s funeral. In it he commented on the “four study pillars that lifted and sustained Michael”.

unrelenting perseverance and courage
formidable intellect, and attention to detail
huge enthusiasm and appetite for the world around him
his faith — an illogical belief in the improbable (Mencken). Michael was a scholarly and scientific physician who did not see his faith as illogical, nor his beliefs improbable. (words of Michael’s best friend)

About seven years before we met, Michael had been told by his doctors that he had 3% chance to live beyond six months. His response was that he would be in that 3%, and his strength and courage added ten well-lived years to his life. Some of his accomplishments after the diagnosis were climbing Machu Picchu, assisting his hockey team at tournaments, singing in the church choir, returning to full-time work for more than five years, travelling and fishing, gardening and riding his bike all over the city.

Of course, like all of us, Michael had quirks. When he sang in the choir he loved hanging on to notes just a bit longer than the rest to see if we heard his voice. His garden consisted of squash, tomatoes and basil — that’s all one really needs! He would till it with a pitch fork, and I would stop by in the morning to repair the underground sprinkler hose. In his fridge he kept a plastic container with large wolf spiders that he caught in his house, saving them to show his teenage son when he came to visit.

We hired a fishing guide to take us fishing for a couple of hours on Kootenay Lake. When Michael caught a huge rainbow trout, an amazing smile lit up his face–he was so proud of his catch. I teased him because he never lit up like that when he was looking at me. But, on our wedding day, I saw that smile again; I will never forget it.

We were aware that our time together after our wedding would be short and we hoped for at least a year. The brain tumour grew very quickly after the wedding, giving us only 3 1/2 months.

I think of Michael every day, but especially on anniversaries such as today. He died the morning of February 23rd, 2010.

Road trips and reflections

I have been awake since shortly before midnight. Nothing seems to be helping, so I decided to watch a movie. As usual I was drawing some comparisons about my own life, and started contemplating some of my past reactions to conflict.

This movie was about a young girl who discovered that her “dad” was not her real dad, and she went on a road trip along with a new acquaintance to find her real dad. The movie takes place in the UK and the road trip starts in London. They have many adventures and discoveries about life as they head to Scotland.

I started to get excited about my own cross-country trip this summer, thinking about the constantly changing scenery across Canada that I’ll once again observe on the drive. Then I started to think back on why and when I would feel the need to go on drives.

As a young child whenever I felt overwhelmed by conflict at home, I would run away. Those short runs seldom lasted longer than an hour — I didn’t want anyone to notice that I was gone. I think the longest episode was under two hours, when I realized that if I wasn’t home soon I would miss the call for lunch, and I would get into far too much trouble from mom!

Once I was old enough to drive, I remember loving the feeling of freedom when I went for drives down to the lake. Of course I couldn’t get permission (or car keys) to just leave without a “real” reason or a destination until my parents moved away and left me behind. By that point, since I was alone in the house there was no reason to “escape” although I do recall driving far enough out of town to go on hikes.

Later, during my first marriage, when conflict happened I would get in the car and drive nowhere in particular. At the time we lived in Bangkok and traffic jams were the norm, so “driving” did not give me a sense of freedom. Getting out of the house was necessary but provided little relief.

During another marriage I would go on drives to escape the violence. Those were not long drives since my children were still at home. They were definitely escapes to help me clear my head and my emotions which did help calm me down.

Driving across the country is something I look forward to. The actual trip itself takes 6-7 days. I make it longer by stopping to visit along the way. This summer I have my new-found 2nd cousins, and my dad’s 1st cousin (whom I only found out about a few months ago!) to meet, my granddaughters and other family and friends.

The question I am asking myself is — is my cross-country drive an escape from something, or to something? Is it an escape? Is it a search for something? In June I will have many hours, and days to attempt come up with an answer.

Facing Fears: Lessons from Lacy

I spent the week between Christmas and New Year’s Eve at my son’s place. He cooked for me, we watched movies, and we took his two dogs on long walks. Then I stayed with Lacy while he spent a few days with Gia out of town.

Lacy is afraid of everything; leaves rustling and crackling when stepped upon, cars warming up in driveways, children skating on an iced-over pond, random signs, posts, garbage bins, and of course other dogs and people. While walking with her I learned to watch for these dangers and steer her around them.

She loves going out for walks, although I’m sure she is hoping that eventually I will learn to trust her enough to let her off-leash. After all, she does get to chase balls off-leash when my son takes her out. That would be easier if I could get her into my car — but my car is a very unfamiliar space to Lacy, and no amount of coaxing will get her to climb in.

I also have fears. I am afraid of big dogs that bark, certain men with evil auras (yes, I am full of judgement when it comes to men), crowds, shopping malls in the middle of the afternoon, airports, illness.

They say that exposure therapy can help, but I know that it won’t help Lacy become less fearful. She is so much better when her big sister is with her, or when she is gently encouraged by my son.

So, maybe facing our fears should be less about being exposed to things we fear, and more about moving on with gentle, loving support.

Birthdays and fading memories

Two days ago we celebrated mom’s 93rd birthday. A few family members joined for a lunch and cake at the care home.

Mom is living with dementia and although she knows who we are when we show up, her short-term memory is extremely short term. In the two minutes it takes to walk from the lunch room to her bedroom she had already forgotten that we had lunch together and shared some of her cake. In fact she had to keep looking at the digital clock and calendar to see what day it was, and couldn’t believe (frequently) that she was as ancient as 93.

Her long-term memory is also disappearing. My brother died from cancer 37 1/2 years ago. He was mom’s favourite (for good reason — a very kind, gentle, thoughtful and intelligent person) and mom essentially stopped living when he died. The depression lasted for decades, and she no longer found joy in what once were some of her favourite activities.

She used to host large gatherings and parties at the house. She used to decorate the house for Christmas, starting the day after her birthday every year. Those activities ended in 1988. Dad became the one who put up the tree, and decorated for Christmas. The fancy dishes were seldom used, and parties did not happen again.

When mom experienced a brain aneurysm about 20 years ago, she reminded us that if things got worse to please just let her go.

But on Monday when reminded that she had to make a wish before blowing out the candles, mom told my sister that her wish was “to celebrate my 94th birthday next year”.

Since moving into the care home mom has become softer and kinder. She reminds me often that they take very good care of her, thanks me for coming to visit; she is kind to everyone she meets and she doesn’t even complain about the noise next door.

Now, mom seldom recognizes photos of my brother when we show her the memory books on her dresser. Not only is her memory of her son fading, but so is the anger and sadness that followed his passing.

Maybe dementia isn’t so bad after all.

Tattoo

Several years ago I was determined to get a tattoo that symbolized the freedom in my life that I was starting to feel. Freedom from abuse, from feeling cornered in every part of my life, unable to live the life that I desired.

The freedom that was helping me to see who I was and I was becoming.

So, I designed it, changing small details regularly until almost a year ago I finalized the drawing. Then came the decision of which tattoo artist I would hire, and where it would be placed on my body. Would it be in a spot where not even I could see it? Or my shoulder blade, which is almost always covered?

Not long ago it was clear to me that I would not be getting a tattoo on my body. The fear of pain, of perhaps a poor artist translating my design, and also the fear of how it might look in a few years when my skin continued it’s natural sag and wrinkles interfered with the artwork.

In the middle of one night last month, the light turned on in my head, and I knew that painting it on my bedroom wall was a much better idea.

I first pencilled it carefully onto the wall, measuring and levelling. The paint I bought was fairly easy to work with, but my lack of artist training and experience made it difficult to get clean, straight lines. That concerned me.

But as I continued to look at my artwork every morning, and each night before turning out the light, I realized that to look from a distance was the best vantage point. Close-up I could see every flaw, every crooked brush stroke and was discouraged enough to consider buying a can of paint and just painting over the whole wall to erase every trace of the tattoo.

I am enjoying my wall tattoo project. It’s a tattoo for me to enjoy — although it’s easy to show to any family member or close friend who stops by to visit (so far…in several weeks, only one other person has seen it up close). It is a daily reminder that freedom from the prison of abuse, bad decisions and shame is possible. And it won’t happen in just one day of work.

The project is ongoing. Each time I get an idea of how to improve the design, I get out a fresh drop of paint, and try it. I have learned how to wash off what doesn’t work, and to always step back and view it from a distance.

Never give up

Scudderia furcata — Fork-tailed bush Katydid

Yesterday was a rough day. I felt emotionally drained by mid-morning and the day went downhill from there. Some random events triggered strong emotions and each one compounded on the others throughout the day.

A few years ago I received incredible assistance coping with, and working through some trauma from the past, including childhood trauma and abuse as an adult. Two amazing counsellors helped me until I was at the point where I didn’t see the need for regular sessions. I’m not sure if that was a wise decision.

Yesterday I just wanted to hide from everything and everyone. I was on the verge of tears after every hint of conflict and criticism.

Katydids are common but rarely seen. To see one just outside my window was a treat. At first I didn’t know what it was, since I have never seen one before, but I observed it hiding in plain sight on my deck chair for well over an hour. It wasn’t startled by my presence; perhaps it couldn’t see me or sense me through the glass window. She was either grooming or eating whatever pollen she had gathered on her front legs.

Throughout my day yesterday I kept thinking of this creature who came to visit and stay quietly near me. I wondered why she would come out of hiding to risk being seen.

Life goes on no matter what kind of day we experience. Each day is a chance for a new beginning and each emotion, whether very down or very high, will pass. Keep showing up and never give up.

Snail

I found this snail in my garden. Apparently they are invasive and can become pests. The green background is the yard waste bin where every snail I find ends up.

Snails are interesting creatures — a little gross when they get their slime on your skin — but interesting all the same. Imagine being able to carry your home around where ever you chose to travel.

I have spent far too much time already this morning trying to identify the specific kind of snail. Perhaps it is a brown-lipped snail (Cepaea nemoralis), plentiful in Western Europe and introduced to North America. Although this species (as in most species of snails) is hermaphrodite, they must mate to produce eggs. Either partner can act as male or female.

I don’t feel guilty throwing the snails into the yard waste bin, since they go from having to search for food, to be totally surrounded by it!

Urban Deer Story

We had a lovely conservation, this majestic creature and I. It was early morning and the crisp air of fall enticed me outside to do a bit of gardening before the day got busy. He was admiring my hibiscus and I was admiring his antlers, pointed toes and high heels. He may have been hoping to get a chance to eat some of the tender hibiscus leaves and flowers….if only I would take down the netting.

Okay, so that’s not entirely true. Just minutes before I took this photo, he was aggressively following a small dog whose owner was looking rather afraid as she led her dog to safety. Another neighbour came along, told his wife and dog to stay away while he ran into his house to grab the bear spray. It was at that point when I realized the encounter could end badly. The young mule-deer buck had no interest in my flowers, but was eyeing the cute little dog, Daisie.

This is rutting season and the bucks are increasingly aggressive. Once the buck ran off after threatened with bear spray, we (people and dog) chatted briefly, then I walked into my backyard. It was there where I heard rustling nearby, and ran back out to ask my neighbour to escort me safely to my backdoor.

I live in the city, within a “safe” community. There are about 390 homes surrounded by a fence, with an open entrance. Behind the community is a pond with a designated wildlife sanctuary, full of ducks, geese, sparrows and other birds. It’s a beautiful area in which to walk any time of year. Last year I would walk around the pond even before the sun came up, until I heard about the packs of coyotes chasing the deer, and the deer chasing the dogs within our community.

There are few break-ins, as people look out for each other. We don’t have fences between the houses, and creatively use plants for some privacy.

The neighbour who helped me, along with his wife and dog will be moving away this week. In the year since I moved in we have become good friends — we chat often when I’m outside doing yard work. I am going to miss them, especially Daisie. Just when I get comfortable around someone, they have to leave. That happens a lot in this 45+ community. Most of the residents are older, in their 70s and 80s, enjoying their own place before they need to move into assisted living, long-term care or moving on from this world. Every month there are notices of people who have died, and others who have moved in. This is an ideal area for people whose children have grown, who want a smaller yard, and want the security of other like-minded neighbours.

Life goes on. New neighbours will move in. This buck will find a mate, and in the spring more babies will come along, requiring more of our collective gardens to supply them with fresh food. They will continue to move from one buffet to the next, resting in the shade, protecting their young, and leaving again to search for their next meal.

Neighbours will come and go. And life goes on.

Watching the garden grow

Each evening since arriving in Cape Breton almost 7 weeks ago I have attempted to take a photo of this backyard. A couple of days were missed while I was travelling but the main goal of tracking the growth of the garden has been maintained.

It is easy to lose sight of progress when watching any plant, animal or person grow over an extended period of time. We see the changes so gradually that it becomes difficult to observe the progress.

I remember watching movies in school of a flower opening its pedals in fast motion. I would have loved to see a fast motion video of these rhododendrons blooming from the moment the first few buds showed a tiny bit of colour, until full bushes bloomed.

Not only have the trees filled out, and the rhododendrons blossomed, but the garden has expanded. When I arrived there were two garden beds for vegetables, now there are 3 large beds and 2 small ones. The grass and weeds have been cut, grown and mowed down again.

170-Year-Old Pipe Organ in Cape Breton

Shortly before leaving BC to drive to Cape Breton, I heard of a 170 year old pipe organ in a Catholic church on Isle Madame. Notre Dame de l’assumption, located on the small community of Arichat, NS is the home of a 1-manual tracker organ, built by Henry Berger in 1854.

The day after arriving last week, I went to see the organ. The care-taker at the church was expecting me (news travels quickly on the east coast!) and gave me a quick history lesson, and told me I could come back and play it anytime. Sunday morning they were expecting me, and the church members heard the organ which has been silent for many years.

This antique instrument has given me inspiration to research the history of that particular organ, and the church. At one point this church was a Cathedral and is the oldest Catholic Church in Nova Scotia. It was founded in 1786. The new building was built in 1837, and the organ bought in the 1850s.

When I practice that organ I try to imagine what it might have been like 170 years ago when the church was full of Acadians, and Irish immigrants. Back when there would have been a large choir full of young, strong voices; when congregations would have been large with babies and children included among the adults and elderly.

Last Sunday morning I attended the service. When I walked into the building I was immediately recognized — simply because no-one recognized me. They knew I was a newcomer, and word had already spread that I was an organist from “away”. The congregation was happy that the organ would speak again, at least for a couple of months.