A Year to the Day

We’re approaching a bunch of first anniversaries: Ter’s retirement from public service (May 25), me visiting Mum at home (May 28), me visiting Mum in hospital before her diagnosis (June 14), me visiting Mum in hospital after her diagnosis (June 16), Mum’s last conversation with me (June 22), the day she went to hospice (June 26) and finally, the day she passed (June 29).

I won’t post about every one of those dates (I know—thank the gods!), but today marks the first Mother’s Day without my mother. It also marks the last time I saw her dressed and out of the house—we’ve never been big on Hallmark occasions in our family, but Mother’s Day and Father’s Day were excuses for Ter and me to meet the folks for lunch, and last May was our last excuse to do it with Mum.

I didn’t know it at the time, of course. Ter had an inkling, but not me, the Queen of Denial.

A year later, it’s Mother’s Day once more. I’m glad our clan never made so big a deal of the occasion that it’s an anniversary of great sadness, because it’s not. But I did spend a few minutes in the Ocean Rom this morning, thanking Mum for being exactly what I needed exactly when I needed her—even if I didn’t always appreciate it. I’ve spent some of the past twelve months regretting things I did or said to her in my formative years, until a friend observed that we can’t expect our present selves to have done anything differently from the way our past selves did it then.

I’ve also learned that everyone means something different to everyone else. Mum will be viewed through a different lens depending on which of us is looking—though I’m pretty sure each of my sibs, and Dad too, will tell you that she was as good a mother as any of us could have hoped for. She always did her best, even when not at her best, even if she didn’t know it.

Truth is, that’s how it is for each of us. For you, for me, for my parents and sibs and friends and colleagues and neighbours and countrymen—all we are doing at any given time is the best we can do. On another day we might do better, but not today. Today is as good as today can get.

Love you, Mum.

Five Long Years

Comfortable Rebellion started on March 23, 2013, with a post entitled “Why Not?” There was no topical photo to accompany the text on that introductory blurb; there was just a big idea, a little preface, and (thanks to Nicole) a poem.

That was five years ago. A lot has happened in those five years, yet not a lot has happened. Time is so fluid, so subjective, that it’s hard to reconcile exactly how much has occurred since I took the plunge 755 posts ago. I’ve strayed a bit from my original intention, which was to write write write then post post post about the literary passion that has driven me from the time I wrote my first unfinished novel at the age of twelve.

There have been a lot of unfinished novels. I have also finished a few, and continue to wrestle with the latest, now almost six years in the birthing and still an obsession because it’s a darned good story and has been from the beginning. Have I ever said, “I want to write a romance”? Not aloud, surely. Romance is not my thing, at least not in the conventional sense. I like that my romances tend to go sideways, but the hero in this one deserves a true love story with a happily-ever-after ending and I’m simply not that skilled at making those happen. In the long run, the characters are responsible for achieving the desired outcome, but I’m still the one directing traffic. If only they weren’t so ... so human.

That’s another area where the Rebellion has slipped slightly off the rails. I’ve become more aware of what it is to be human in the past few years. Ironically, I did not see it coming, and I’ve written a lot more than I meant to about my experience. Personal non-fiction is not my literary preference, but it is writing, so I can’t say I’ve lost the CR plot entirely. It’s about stories, right? My story, which is your story and everyone else’s story throughout history; anyone who has been human, anyway, who has lived a life unique unto him/herself but who shares so much in common with me just by nature of his/her humanity. We are all connected, after all. If I didn’t feel it five years ago, I certainly feel it now. So I write about it, and post about it, and hope that the ether has been brightened somewhat by my contribution to it. I may never know.

Have I gone wrong? Maybe not. Maybe the blog has evolved as it was supposed to, even if it doesn’t look the way I imagined it would in the spring of 2013. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what it would look like or what I thought I was doing before I did it, but on that Friday five years ago, I asked myself why should I do it and the answer came pretty quickly:

Why not?

Here’s to another five years.

Canada 150

I love it here. I love Canada. I love being Canadian. I love hearing tourists gush about how friendly we are and how safe they feel within our borders. I am gratified to know that our global reputation is as pristine as any First World country’s reputation can be. We have our problems, sure. Just ask the indigenous people whose struggle to reclaim their stolen heritage continues. Even so, we as a nation are trying to repair the damage done by our colonial predecessors in hope of making something stronger from the wreckage. We may be Canadian, but we’re also human. We can’t be perfect, at least not all the time. We just try a little harder to be respectful, polite, environmentally conscious, compassionate, sympathetic, funny, humble and supportive. Patriotism hasn’t come easily in the past, but in recent years, it’s crept closer to the forefront, and you know what? That’s okay. We should be patriotic. We live in a magical, beautiful, expansive, progressive, diverse, inclusive and wondrous place.

Though I’d like to say I am proud to be Canadian, I am more inclined to say I’m relieved to be Canadian. Pride does have a dark side. The temptation to become smug about the country I call home has increased since superpowers like the US and the UK appear to have lost their lustre, but I refuse to go there. I am proud, yes. I am relieved, yes. I am grateful, yes. But I am here not by my doing. I am here because my father who, on deciding to emigrate from England, wrote to three nations: Canada, Australia, and America.

Canada wrote him back.

Canada welcomed him, his wife, and his four kids (my wee sister was smuggled in utero). I don’t think any of us would have had it turn out differently.

Happy birthday, Canada – and thanks.

With love,

Toe Canada!

Here we are, celebrating another anniversary of “thank the gods my parents didn’t emigrate to the US”. Once more, I tilt my gaze skyward and express my fervent gratitude for landing in this marvelous town in a marvelous province in perhaps the most marvelous country in the world. Sure, we have our problems, but they’re mostly first world and anything less could be resolved with a little compassion and less corporate greed. Our dollar may not be equal to the mighty American buckaroo, but our coin makes a stronger stand than their paper if you stack them side by side. And who cares anyway, when Canada by global reputation is safer, friendlier and far more polite than our noisy neighbours?

Given the state of the world these days, it’s inevitable that we will be affected in a negative manner as we go, but I have faith in our national resolve to stand in support of people in trouble while maintaining our collective cool. We are reasonable, peaceful folk (except at hockey games); we abhor violence (except at hockey games) and recognize guns as the formidable killing machines they are, rather than the extension of an outdated “right” as written by a gang of eighteenth century politicians. We may be a tad alarmed at what seems an overwhelming influx of races and cultures joining our ranks, but we’ll adapt because that’s what we do. We welcome newcomers. We try to get along with everyone. We share our wealth (most of us) and try to learn from our mistakes. We’re good people in a good country and I am so glad to be here.

Happy Birthday, Canada.

Anniversaries

where the adventure began - July 1, 1984

Ter and I moved into our current abode on August 1, so our residential fiscal year ends on July 31. That means our final rent cheque for the 13/14 cycle will be cashed after today’s stat holiday. I wouldn’t mention it except it so happens that our very first mutual rent cheque was cashed on the same day thirty years ago.

Thirty years.

Yep, Ter and I became roommates on July 1, 1984. Who could have predicted that we’d still be together three decades after we signed the lease on suite 408 at the Landmark building in Sidney-by-the-Sea?

Not us. The plan—in my mind, anyway—had been to share expenses until one of us (probably Ter, who was blonde and beautiful and so freaking pulled together) found Mr. Right. The universe obviously had other ideas, since that paragon of priesthood perfection never materialized, and after all this time, I can honestly say, THANK YOU, UNIVERSE!!!

I should also thank my father, because it was his idea. Faced with the terror of acquiring another twentysomething daughter when the one he had was showing no sign of leaving the nest, he quietly suggested to me that, “Perhaps you two should think of getting an apartment together.”

Well, duh. Therein lies the danger of parents making their home too comfortable for the children—I was twenty-two, had a fulltime government job, and no inclination at all to get my own place. Ter had come back from Edmonton and was living with her folks in their ground floor apartment. She, by comparison, had been on her own since she was seventeen, so when I told her what Dad had said, she was all for it. Thus began “The Ongoing Adventures of Ru and Ter”.

Her childhood experience was in direct contrast to mine, so we each brought unique neuroses and phobias to the party. As we have grown together into adulthood, we’ve sorted through our mutual crap and found our singular magic. We have helped each other to become who we truly are. We’re not done yet, either. There is so much more growing and nurturing and sharing to accomplish, feats that couldn’t be achieved by either of us in company with anyone else. And when we operate as a team? Don’t ask questions, just get out of our way.

A popular (and horribly romantic) misconception is that a girl will marry her soul mate. This is not always so. In fact, it may be less frequently so. Soul mates come in many forms. We travel through time together and take on different roles in each phase of our progress. Whatever she has been and whatever she will be, this time out, Ter is my sistah. My teacher. My yardstick. My cool inspector. My house elf. My guru. My heavy-lifter. My bodyguard. My reality check. She says I never drive her crazy, so I’m unsure how she perceives the condition, but when we argue, we argue from ego, never from spirit. The square root of our relationship is love. Pure, positive, unconditional love.

Could either of us have survived the past thirty years with Mr. Right? Or anyone else, for that matter?

Maybe. But it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.