A Mighty Nut

 

The last time an acorn got my full attention, I was seven or eight years old. I disguised one in a wax candy wrapper and presented it to my older sister while she was walking with her schoolfriends. She opened it and Gotcha! I don’t remember if she threw the “candy” at me once she unwrapped it, but she should have done. I was kind of a brat.

That momentous prank occurred in Sorel PQ, where autumn differs vastly from autumn in Victoria BC. Many trees shed leaves out here, but cedars, pines and firs generally dominate the landscape and so do their cones and needles. Horse chestnuts often nail unwitting pedestrians on Cook Street, and I code-named the mystery trees along Bushby Street “cereal trees” for clogging the gutters with a windfall resembling Kellogg’s “Special K”. Victoria is also known for harbouring (or should that be “arboring”?) Garry oaks in sundry locales, but I have never noticed an abundance of acorns in any of the ’hoods I’ve called home.

Until this year. At some point in the last few weeks, acorns have appeared almost everywhere. No street seems exempt. The main drag is choked with them. The parking lot is sticky from acorns crushed beneath car tires. Walking anywhere is chancy when you can’t tell by looking if the shell is soft enough to give underfoot. Some are, many aren’t. No wonder the squirrels around here are so tubby; they can’t possible consume every acorn they see, and storage becomes a problem for everyone once the attic is stuffed.

Now I know why it’s called Oak Bay.

The most memorable card my mother ever gave me was very simple. On the front, a watercolour sketch of an acorn and encouragement to stand firm. “Remember,” the message read inside, “each mighty oak was once a nut that stood its ground.”

Mum was a riot.

Survival of the Flittest

not our visitor, alas

For weeks, Ter has talked about getting a hummingbird feeder. She’s ventured out specifically to get one more than once, but the line ups to get into Canadian Tire are around the block before opening time these days – you’d think the Leps were coming to town but no, it’s probably because the corona lockdown has everyone engaged in knocking home improvement projects off the honey-do list. The backyard will be the primary vacation spot this summer, so get that garden in order!

I digress.

Finally, Ter found a feeder somewhere else and brought it home, where it sat for a few more weeks on the table in a corner, cooking, as my grandfather said when asked why his new suit still hung, unworn, six weeks after purchase. (It must be genetic. I do the same thing; a new shirt is not new if it’s been hanging in my closet for a month before I wear it to work.)

I digress again.

The hummingbird feeder is a tribute to Mum, who enjoyed watching the little guys congregate around the feeder outside her window back in the day, therefore it seemed appropriate that ours be installed in time for Mother’s Day. A sack of sucrose crystals was purchased along with the feeder, so on the Friday preceding, Ter and I followed the instructions by washing out the feeder, mixing up the syrup (wincing slightly at the cherry Kool-Aid colour), and affixing some picture wire from which to hang the contraption on our little balcony.

Oh, yeah. The balcony. Well, the floor of said balcony is angled to allow for drainage when it rains (and when it rains in Esquimalt, it rains); setting the step stool in place took some finagling before finding a relatively flat surface. My balance is pretty good, but while a tumble over the railing from the second floor likely wouldn’t kill me, I’d rather not go there. With Ter at my back and the rail at my knees, up I went to hitch the feeder to its hook.

Ta da! Not a problem!

Within twenty minutes, we had our first customer, a sizeable-for-the-species specimen who stopped by to sample from three of the four ports before zipping off to wherever hummingbirds go after topping up their tanks. The same (?) fellow came by a few more times before nightfall, and has made periodic visits every day since. We don’t always catch him in the act, and the liquid level hasn’t dropped a whole lot, but he’s definitely around. And when the season ramps up, I hope to see a frequent flurry of the little guys. In fact, I’m inclined to sit quietly in a corner and watch for them – a meditative moment with Nature. And who knows? If I have the Canon with me, I might even get a picture. “See that little blur ... ?”

Come and get it, boids!

View From Another Window

Ter and I no longer live in Fairfield. Our heritage suite was sold last fall and our new home is across the bridge in Esquimalt, which is still within the Capital Regional District but is far enough away from Victoria to be , as far as we’re concerned, on another planet.

Rather than being right across the street, the ocean is two blocks away. I can still see it through my bedroom window, but now it’s partially obscured by tall cedar trees and the rooftops between here and there. The mountains I admired from the Ocean Room are visible in the same frame—and yes, I have my own bedroom again. We both do, though Ter’s is known as “the nun’s cell” because it’s so much smaller than mine. She’s happy in her little den, as I am happy in what’s been dubbed “the Princess suite” because “master” cannot apply when one’s house elf was accidentally freed from service.

Fate has been extremely kind in granting us a suite where no one lives below us in a building where all our neighbours are older and (mostly) quieter than we are. We have more of them than we did off Dallas Road, but I’m the only soul in residence who leaves at crap o’clock because she has a regular job. Everyone else is retired or semi-so, but if you’re inclined to laugh at us being roomies in an old folks’ home, you can stifle the impulse right now. This place is a gift. It more than met all our conditions. It included a few we hadn’t even considered.

In truth, I have never felt as blessed by my loving friendly and generous Universe. Here, we can heal. We can rest and recharge from the ongoing strain of living above entitled millennials while adapting to a world, first, without Ter working and, second, without Mum. It’s been tougher than I thought it would be—not that I thought much about it until it happened, and if I had thought about it, I would never have imagined it playing out as it actually played out. Many things have changed. It seems everything has changed. One thing has not.

The view may be different, but the magic is the same.

58

Groucho Marx said, “Time flies like an arrow. Fruit flies like a banana.”

My mother once said she’d wake up feeling like a young woman, then look in the mirror and “get an awfy surprise.”

My aunt once said she’d figured out why babies cry when adults lean over their cot: “Everything falls forward and you have a face like a pudding!”

Today is my 58^th birthday. Part of me goes, “Wow.” Another part goes, “Already?” and another goes, “Not done yet!” I continue to be a work in progress, though it seems of late that what progress I’ve made in recent years is being tested in the crucible of this existence. It’s all fine and well to preach inner peace, faith and meditation; now’s the time to walk the talk.

I’m also at the age where parents, mentors, friends and icons being returning Home. The loss of souls who nurtured and inspired me growing up has been extremely trying. And I’ve spent more time than is comfortable wallowing in the Slough of Despond—but there have been bright moments, too: positive change at work, revisiting the music I loved when it was new, reliving shared history and laughing over the best memories. I’m old enough now to understand the concept of selective memory, and am beyond grateful that the bad ones don’t cause the same pain, while the good ones are as acute as when they were being made. Life is indeed a funny thing.

So here I sit, taking stock of where I am versus where I was or expected to be, and am okay with it. New adventures lie ahead, yet there’s enough in the rearview mirror to entertain me in slow moments, and to prove that I have been generously supported throughout my journey. I continually long for extended periods of creative production, and trust it, too, will come in due course. I can, in the meantime, give myself four hours on a weekend and see what evolves.

Mostly, I have learned to live only in the present moment and let the gods advise when I need to do something. Some days are more daunting than others—that’s the joy (?) of being human—but I’m getting the hang of it now. There’s no rush to master it, either. I’m still in awe of this beautiful, magical, unpredictable, colourful, wonderful world.

Happy birthday, Ru.

With love,

Butterflies and Hummingbirds

Apparently, my mother liked to watch hummingbirds. She put sugar water in the feeder on her patio and throughout the spring and summer, the little gaffers showed up in droves to get hyped on empty calories. When my sisters and I cleared out her room last March, a Christmas ornament in the shape of a hummingbird lay on her dresser. It now lies on the end table next to her photo in the Ocean Room. Yes, I pinched it and now, whenever I see a hummingbird, I think of Mum.

When she passed away a year ago this very day, butterflies were everywhere. ’Twas the season, after all – summer had just begun and the world was bright with life in all its vibrant glory. What a magical time she chose in which to make her transition. In many cultures, butterflies and hummingbirds symbolize transformation, whether it’s a massive change in this life or moving from this one to the next. I suppose it’s natural to see significance in a hummingbird hovering outside the window when Mum has been the subject of conversation, or to startle at a butterfly flitting over the lavender bush a heartbeat after she’s crossed my mind. Some might call it coincidence, but I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in our ability to transcend dimensions with a thought. I think of Mum and she is here. I may not see her, I may not even feel her presence ... until I glance through the window and see that tiny bird pausing just long enough to catch my eye and make me wonder.

With love,

Crap O’Clock

I am slumped in my comfy chair, still in my jammies with a hot Magic Bag softening my stiff neck and shoulders. A bleary-eyed Ter is nursing the day’s first cup of tea from her corner of the loveseat. Neither of us has the energy for small talk. A mournful wail suddenly wafts up from the lawn beneath our window, wending its way into our living room—it’s the three-year-old downstairs, voicing his displeasure at being dressed and out the door to daycare before seven a.m. on a weekday.

“Suck it up, junior,” I say, bluntly. “Life is hard so you’d better get used to it.”

Cut me some slack, okay? This is the same kid who wakes me from a sound sleep at this same ungodly hour on a Sunday by galloping gaily up and down the hall beneath our suite. Instead of sympathizing, I take a perverse pleasure in him being hauled out the door against his will two days a week when I have to get up and go to work for five. He thinks he’s hard done by now? Wait until he starts school, heh heh.

Yup, it’s a hard life all right. I am not nor ever have been a morning person. I have learned to appreciate the beauty of a sunrise over the ocean or the tranquil solitude of a pre-breakfast flânerie, but overall, I’d rather stay up late than get up early. And I can sympathize with Junior Jinx (as Ter calls him) to some degree: I became “anti-morning” when I started school myself. It’s not that I disliked school (much). I’m generally quite happy when I get to the office, too. It’s the getting up at crap o’clock to go somewhere I’d rather not go that well and truly bites.

I don’t know how my mother did it. She was always the first one up, summer or winter, rain or shine, and breakfast was usually on the hob before she knocked on my door with a cheery, “Wakey, wakey!” or—after my bones kicked in—an even brighter, “Pill time!” Those were bleak mornings for sure. I can’t imagine she liked them any better than I did, but I never saw it.

During a recent work tea with Treena, she reminisced fondly about the idyllic days of childhood. “Do you remember waking up every day, full of excitement and eager to see what adventure awaited?” she asked, wistfully.

I just stared at her, wondering what that must have been like. It seems every morning of my life is met with the question of whether I can do it. Whether I can get up and get going. It was particularly grim when I was younger, but I’ve hated being woken up forever. Sure, I can wake up happy on a weekend, but who doesn’t? It’s a weekend, for Pete’s sake!

Which reminds me: I have to reset the alarm before I go to bed tonight.

Crap.

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.

The Red Bag of Courage

It’s my favourite colour. The colour of passion, of life, of rage and the root chakra. Its palette ranges from shell pink to cabernet, but my favourite hue lies somewhere between crimson and garnet; a rich, sanguine, luscious red, deeper than ruby but brighter then blood.

While my hair was dyed fire engine red for years, I was not self-conscious about it, probably because I was standing underneath it and couldn’t see myself coming from half a block away. It never occurred that I might be brave to be so bold. I literally didn’t see it except in the mirror, and even then, my stylist is so adept at her art that the colour was stunning, never shocking.

I admire women who wear red, especially in coats, hats and/or shoes. My older sister has a red wool coat that looks absolutely awesome, but when I remarked on how cool she looked walking up the street, she replied that she felt like she was screaming for attention – something no one in my family (my hair antics notwithstanding) ever does deliberately. I assured her that she wasn’t as loud as she feared, it was the proximity to herself that lent the illusion. The same thing happens when I wear my Flyers jersey: no logo is larger than the one on my chest.

This past weekend, my sisters and I convened to sort through our dear mother’s clothes. Mum was always well-dressed, accenting a neutral outfit with a flashy scarf, a bit of bling, or a pretty cardigan. She wore lots of blue and green, cream and taupe. No black. No grey. Her cardies were mostly floral prints. There was not a lot of red in her wardrobe—yet she accessorized with it brilliantly.

A scarlet car coat hung in her closet. I pinched her crimson pashmina. My wee sis opened one of a dozen (I kid you not) shoeboxes and exclaimed, “Her Christmas shoes!”, a pair of low heeled pumps as red as the slippers of Oz. Mum wore them during the holidays. And then, the purse. The cavernous, multi-pocketed satchel that she carried with her on many a lunch date with Ter and me over the years. It’s red. Cardinal red. I’d have claimed it on the spot but didn’t, not because it’s neon bright, but because it’s far bigger than any bag I ever intend to carry. It’ll be a splendid addition to someone’s collection, though. Someone with the spot-on fashion sense my mother had.

At the end of the day, surrounded by boxes stuffed with sweaters, scarves and shoes, we reminisced with wonder about Mum’s style and my older sister observed, “She wasn’t afraid of colour.”

Mum was right. Be bold. Be brave. Wear red—and if you can’t wear it, accessorize!

Stepping Out of Christmas

The night before we took down the tree, I noticed something I always forget until the night of the day we put up the tree: I love how the twinkle lights are reflected in Ter’s wineglass. This year, the inverted effect also reflected the tapsalteerie nature of Christmas 2018 ... or of 2018 in general. As my office roomie bleakly observed in mid-December, “2018 can go f*** itself.”

Amen, sister.

Right up to December twenty-first, real life inflicted itself on the festivities. Physical challenges, work pressure, car repairs, and the cyclical nature of grief conspired to foil my seasonal joy—but we got ’er done in spite of the obstacles.

Don’t we always?

Think about it. Life doesn’t stop because it’s Christmas. It doesn’t stop for vacation, either. I once asked my boss if I could have my time back because my February leave had sucked. Alas, my request was denied. Since then, I have been aware of the contrast in supposedly good times, Christmas being the most obvious target for the simple reason that it demands more energy than a summer holiday. When you’re already exhausted, the smallest hiccup can be tectonic in result.

Conversely, this past Christmas was also brighter, more peaceful and somehow happier than previous ones. I thought frequently of Mum, but the memories of Christmases with her made up for the first one without her. As for the big tree ... I did the heavy lifting since Ter was out of commission, but it felt like more of a team effort once Bart the bear was in place next to the star. Ups and downs came fast and furious throughout the season, but upside down or right side up, it was consistently beautiful. I couldn’t have imagined better.

On to 2019!

The Year of Being Human

Twelve months ago, Ter and I stood in our kitchen and proclaimed 2018 “the Year of Transition and Change”. She was on the cusp of committing to retire from the public service, my job had settled down after a major shift in program staff, my wee sis and I were planning to visit our brother on Prince Edward Island. There was some concern over a nodule in Mum’s forearm, but the experts were confident—as was she—that it would amount to naught. In all, the new year seemed full of promise and adventure, and we were ready to tackle all the good things we envisioned.

Perhaps we should have been more specific. Perhaps we should have proclaimed 2018 as a year of positive transition and change.

Ter’s intention to cruise into retirement went south when she was called to be shop steward in an ugly harassment case. I lost my office and was moved into a shared space when branch staff expanded beyond the eighth floor’s capacity. Though Mum’s radiation treatment appeared to be a success in February, after a couple of months of normal, she fell ill and died four weeks after Ter’s last day at work. Wee sis and I cancelled our trip to PEI—she had injured her back while helping Dad care for Mum, and quite frankly, the shock was so overwhelming that we reeled through the summer and well into the fall. That’s when our landlord let us know she was thinking to sell the suite. Ter tweaked a muscle in her neck at Thanksgiving and was laid up into November. The Tiguan went into the shop for an expensive overnight service—twice. The postal dispute threatened Christmas delivery of cards and parcels ... and I’m sure I’ve forgotten something in the continuous monsoon of WTF? we endured throughout 2018, but that’s the gist of our Year of Transition and Change.

Keeping the faith was pretty darned challenging during the past twelve months. It’s easy to believe in a loving friendly and generous Universe when all is going smoothly. The tricky part is seeing the light in darkness. The majority of 2018 was, for me, a battle against a pervading sense of loss. Every night, I struggled to maintain my belief in being loved by a higher power, to trust that things happen for a reason, when they are meant to happen, and to know the rest of my life will not be spent gaping into a black hole. The gauge on my power of positivity has hovered perilously close to empty at times. I have cried more in the past months than I have in past years. I have raged at the heavens and thrown up my hands. I have stormed and begged and dug deep to get through the past turbulent, tumultuous, unexpectedly tragic fifty-two weeks.

And yet I have seen miracles. Small ones, to be sure, but miracles nonetheless. I will always remember the preternatural brilliance of the day after my mother died; how sharply defined and brilliantly hued the world appeared through the Ocean Room window. I will cherish forever the kindness and support I was shown by my friends and co-workers, people who rarely see me vulnerable yet rose to the occasion when I could not help myself. Christmas presents appeared from nowhere at the last minute, as did emails from loved ones after long silences. And others, too numerous to name. Feeling my mother’s presence in the room. Ter’s parking karma. Being able to pay cash for Tiggy’s repairs. Having a beautiful place to call home. Laughing with my office roomie, then going for tea with her because we like each other enough to be more than workmates. Hugging my little sister. The list goes on.

Though I almost lost it more than once, I managed to keep my grip on the thread that binds me to divinity. I still believe in something greater than myself, that all-encompassing presence that some call God. In truth, I’m no longer sure what to call it. I just know it’s there, that I am part of it and it is part of me—and of everyone else who is, who was, and who will be. For me, 2018 was all about the human experience and it truly sucked ... but I survived. I’m not through it yet, of course. The calendar doesn’t control time, it merely marks it. By all counts, I am only halfway through the process of reconciling myself to the tectonic changes that occurred in the past twelve months, so the drama ain’t over yet. I am relieved to say, however, that the light is more evident now than it was even three months ago.

It occurred to me on Christmas Eve, the most magical night of the year, that miracles are like stars strewn across a midnight sky:

The longer you spend staring up at them, the more begin to appear, and soon the entire night is bright with light.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Happy New Year.

With love,

“Full Circle”

Tomorrow would have been my mother’s 89^th birthday. Actually, it will still be her birthday; she’s just not here to celebrate it.

Ter and I used to call her on the day and sing a silly birthday song we learned in church. Maybe we’ll do it this year, too, only without the telephone. Last year, instead of taking her and Dad to lunch, we drove out to the house, where Wee Sis and Boy Sister joined us for tea and cake in an impromptu party. It was one of the happiest times I’ve had. No one suspected it would be our last birthday with Mum.

I’ve spent this whole summer trying to write a poem that would do her justice. I’ve played with phrases and couplets, seeking to describe the “something special” that Dad says existed between Mum and me from the day I was born. Who am I kidding? A proper poetic tribute would have to be an epic to rival the Viking sagas, except it exceeds my ability to compose one.

And yet, perhaps an epic ode is unnecessary. In this instance, perhaps less is truly more. A single line that came to me on the day of her passing seems to say it all. It certainly feels that way.

You were there when I arrived

And I was there to say good bye.

Happy Birthday, Mum.

Lemons

When someone’s life goes sour, I’m the first one to spout a platitude. When it’s my life, I’m the first one to want to clock the first one to spout a platitude.

Like this oldie but goodie: “When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.”

If all had gone to plan, this weekend my wee sister and I would have been halfway through visiting our older older brother on Prince Edward Island, and today I’d have been on an in-person artist date with Nicole. Alas, life had another plan that, by ripple effect, changed the original plan, plus a couple of others.

I spent the summer mourning my “sister trip” as well as my mother, and even though the flights were fully refunded, having to do it still hurt. It also gave me a different song to sing when I tired of lamenting Mum. There were a few tracks on the “2018 Summer Sucks” EP, and I played that baby thin. I may even have incurred an eyeroll or two by writing this post, but stick with me – it gets brighter at the end.

It may be human to cry for what might have been, but it’s also terribly unproductive. “What might have been” is as unreal as what once was; all we truly have is Right Now. And while in the Now, even what seems real is merely transient. Sadness is as fleeting as happiness if you choose to make it so. Denying what we feel in a given moment doesn’t make it go away – in fact, it’s more likely to come out sideways when we’re not looking – so by all means, take that moment and relish it. We’re here to experience contrast; however, it’s equally important to remember that we can change how we feel, good or bad, according to how we want to feel.

I didn’t know it before, but I know it now: I don’t like grief. While it’s necessary to the human condition, it’s no fun at all and eventually I got tired of it. I slowly started thinking about other things. Happier things. Creative things. I love and miss Mum no less, yet now that I’m facing the sun again, she’s even more present in my awareness. (How can she be gone and still be present? Only the Universe knows for sure!)

You rarely nail the recipe on the first go; you gotta keep tasting the lemons to get the sweetness right – and while some folks just plain like their lemonade on the sour side, others have no idea that adding the sugar is up to them. Henry David Thoreau said, and I’m paraphrasing as usual, it’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.

I hated that wee sis and I had to postpone our trip. I hated the reason more, of course, but we certainly haven’t cancelled it. We’ve simply changed the dates.

So Thoreau was right. It’s about perspective. And when you get right down to it, you can’t make lemonade without those darned lemons.

It’s a Tapsalteerie World

My parents would occasionally ask me if I kent what a particular word or phrase means in the Scottish vernacular. Having been raised by a pair of Fife accents, I consider myself fairly familiar with the day to day lingo, and much of what I grew up hearing is now part of my own patter. Hence I was often able to respond with the correct definition. “Peelie-wally”, for instance, was how Mum once described the maraschino cherry in a tin of fruit cocktail, so when they tried it on me some years ago, my answer came easily. “It means puny and pathetic.”

According to my copy of The Pocket Guide to Scottish Words, it actually means “pale and ill-looking”, which is close enough.

A couple of years ago, one of them (I don’t remember which, but they were both present and smiling) asked me, “Do you know of ‘tapsalteerie’?”

I had to stop laughing before I answered. “No, that’s a new one!”

“What do ye think it means?”

I didn’t have to think for long. Sounding it out first, I took a stab with, “Topsy-turvy?”

Bingo! It means upside down, in a muddle, and confusion.

It also describes my world of late. My dear mother was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer shortly after my June 10 post and on the 29^th ... well, the world went tapsalteerie.

It’s righting itself one step at a time – closer to two steps forward and one back, really – but eight weeks on, there is progress... I think. It’s a process, right? The spiritual being having a human experience? Well, shoot. What is more human than birth and death? I’ve just been lucky to avoid dealing directly with the latter until a couple of months ago. I had hoped, perhaps with some hubris, that my belief in the Big Picture would have eased the grief of mortality. Colour me humbled. Despite my unshakeable faith that she is safe, loved, and more available to me now than she ever was in the flesh, the vacuum of Mum’s absence from this world still sucks out loud. I haven’t cried so much since forever.

She left orders that I neither weep nor wail, to which I confess, “So much for that!” None of it at CR, though. This not the place—but if anything I learn as a result of wading through what seems an insurmountable loss can help somebody else, it’s worth sharing. I began this blog four months before my mother knew about it, and while she may have been my greatest fan (not to mention a quarter of my audience), my quest for enlightenment and creative expression must continue for as long as I am here. It’s my journey, after all. I’m so grateful she was with me for the greater part of it. She taught me to be wonderful. She let me be myself, yet she lent me traits so reminiscent of her that the best compliment I can receive is, “You’re just like your mother.” Whether or not she understood or agreed with me, she read every post on this darned blog and took pride in my gift with the written word. She was exactly what I needed. She was the best.

It’s a tapsalteerie world without her, but I’ll get used to it in time.

Thanks, Mum.

With love,

Mother of the Bride

The hoopla, hysteria, and controversy surrounding Prince Harry’s wedding to Meghan Markle this weekend has been exhausting. Whether or not you cared, you were inundated with information about her family and speculation about the gown, the guests, and the gospel choir—all parts of a ceremony that was touted to tip royal tradition on its ear, as if the bride being an American divorcee of biracial heritage wasn’t enough to raise both eyebrows and hackles among the British aristocracy (and beyond).

Naturally, Ter and I got up at crap o’clock to watch it on live TV. Neither of us wanted to risk stumbling onto reviews of the dress before we’d seen it ourselves, though I confess I was more curious to see what the groom was wearing. He’d looked so fine at William’s wedding in 2011 that I couldn’t imagine him outdoing himself on Saturday, but he was, in a word, dashing.

Anyway, the gown was surprisingly modest, the guests were a pageant of taste that inspired everything from applause to oh-my-gods, and the gospel choir was riveting. From start to finish, the event planners nailed it. Poor Harry looked about to faint more than once; if not for Meghan holding him tightly by the hand, I feared his knees might have gone on him. I suspect the bride is generally more confident than the groom in any wedding, given that he’s a supporting player while she is queen for a day.

Not so on this occasion, though. The Queen was the queen and the groom a royal prince. That’s competition for any bride, but this particular one handled it pretty well. Besides, as the broadcaster stated, “She entered the chapel as a commoner and left it as the Duchess of Sussex.” A pretty good trade-off for sharing the spotlight on her special day.

What can her mother think of it all? This ordinary woman, a social worker from California, journeyed alone to the UK for tea with Her Majesty, and sat by herself while her daughter married the world’s most eligible bachelor in front of a gazillion witnesses. What in the world must have crossed her mind during the ceremony? Love, naturally. Pride, obviously. Some consternation, I imagine. After all, her only child is now a member of the British Royal Family. That must be like losing your labour of love to a corporate giant, though with this merger, you have to wonder what’s in it for her. Meghan’s life will never be the same, but Meghan will be fine. Harry’s family will circle the wagons to keep her safe—but what of Meghan’s mother? What becomes of her now that her daughter is a duchess?

I thought she seemed a little sad at times during the ceremony. She held herself with dignity and maternal pride, and though tears are expected from the mother of the bride, I couldn’t say for sure that hers were all for joy. When she returns home, leaving her child behind, what happens to her? Can she resume a normal life, or will every move she makes be scrutinized and critiqued, reflected back on her daughter and vice versa, for the rest of her days?

She raised Meghan to make a difference, but I doubt Meghan’s mother saw this coming. Who would? And as the Duchess of Sussex rides into the future with Prince Harry at her side, I sincerely hope that her mother can live in peace, unmolested by the media and/or opportunistic friends. I hope that she finds comfort in her community and joy in her inevitable grandchildren. I hope that her daughter’s destiny gives her no cause for stress or sadness.

I wonder if Doria hopes the same.

On Da Mend

I’ve been wondering why my arthritis chose this winter to reignite. I may not understand completely why it’s back until it’s gone again (one always hopes, right?), but I have some ideas. This life is about learning, and as far as my bones go, I think I failed grade three the first time.

The first time around, I declared war. I fought to be as normal as everyone else in my world. I didn’t always make it, of course. I had a ton of sick days during those years. I was deeply, truly angry when it beat me, and I used that fury to redouble my efforts, sometimes successfully and sometimes not so much. There were no trippy hippy platitudes for teenaged Ru, that’s for sure. I was locked in mortal combat with a monster and one of us was gonna die.

When it finally burned out, my relief was overwhelming. I had won. I was alive and my nemesis wasn’t.

I was also wrong. Oh, I was most certainly alive, but the bones—and my terror of their return—have haunted me to this day. The trouble with your worst fear is that it can manifest in ideal conditions. I have no idea what those conditions are, but something went haywire last fall.

Welcome back to grade three, Ru.

I’m a quicker study these days, though. This relapse happened for a reason. I hope it’s a short term stint, but this time I’m doing my homework between meltdowns. (I still have them, those opaque moments when the fear of indefinite hurting immobilizes me.) Anyway, here’s what I’ve learned so far:

Living with chronic pain is not a competition. It’s a process. If I didn’t know it before—which I apparently didn’t—I know it now. Rather than a battle for supremacy between me and my compostable container, it’s a cooperative effort based on mutual respect. I give it what it needs to feel better, be it ice, rest, or the occasional Aleve, and it stops hurting so much. Who knew?

Some days are easier than others. As my Scottish mum would say, you’ll be “up one day and doon the next.” Accept this and move on. Down days are frustrating, and sometimes you’ll weep anguished tears. That’s okay. Tears are not a sign of weakness. Tomorrow will be different. Sure, it might be worse ... but it might also be better.

Stay in the moment. Some of them (many of them) will hurt like the dickens, but not every one of them. Occasions do occur when the pain is overshadowed. Laughing with a friend. A hot cup of tea. Cuddling a teddy bear. Sun breaking through cloud. Watching a favourite movie. Even wrangling with a math problem can provide a welcome distraction. Cherish those moments by embracing, welcoming, savouring and otherwise being grateful for them. (There is always space for gratitude.)

Do not look too far ahead. Contemplating a future of non-stop coping will make you want to cut your throat. This saps strength better applied either to the present moment, if necessary, or spared for a moment when you really need it.

Rest and rejuvenate. Fighting pain while operating in day to day life takes more energy for you than it does for your healthy friend/neighbour/co-worker. I resisted this notion in my teens, when all I wanted was to be as normal as my buddies, but as a middle-aged adult, if I have to, I nap on a weekend afternoon. Sometimes I can’t keep my eyes open; at other times, I doze while listening to my silly jazz station. It’s nice for most of us to lie still once in a while. For you, it’s imperative!

Admit when you’re not up to par. It takes courage to say you’re unwell. I wish it didn’t. As with tears, pain is not a sign of weakness. It’s frigging pain. When you’re in it, it’s okay to say so (just try to maintain your dignity while doing it). At my worst last November, I discovered how much my co-workers care for me when they rallied to make my life easier during a particularly trying phase at the office. My honesty gave them a chance to be as kind and generous with me as they claim I am with them. Win-win!

Wash dishes by hand, in purely hot water (no cold), and wearing rubber gloves. Aching finger joints love the heat and the gloves ensure you don’t strain them further by gripping too hard on wet stoneware.

Remind yourself that, though pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. You may not have a choice about when it hurts, but you can certainly decide how to handle it when it does.

Finally, you may be alone with the pain, but you are not truly alone. Each of us is loved somewhere, by someone. You are no exception. It may be hard to remember this when you’re living your day one breath at a time. That doesn’t make it a lie. Reach out. Someone will answer.

With love,

Blustery Days

My earliest memory of hella high winds formed when I was about five years old. I was in kindergarten in Sorel, at a school that was, I believe, walking distance from home.

I don’t remember much about kindergarten except that I didn’t like it. It was new and strange, and full of kids who spoke French when I was the only one who didn’t. I don’t know if I lasted the full term, or if my folks pulled me out after I pitched a four alarm tan-tan in the driveway one day; so much of that time in my life is long gone but for the dramas that tend to stay with a person well into adulthood. Allowing for said dramas to become exaggerated over time, I have a clear sense of losing my mind one day, and my mother telling the kind folks who had come to pick me up to go on their way. I don’t remember anything more than that, but if Mum does, I bet the story’s as embarrassing as the one she likes to tell about the day I first saw snow.

I digress.

While I was still in kindergarten, I remember stepping from the school into bright sun and big wind. The leaves were doing their swirly dance on the sidewalk and skittering into the street. I was wearing my plush green winter coat, which was heavy enough to keep my feet on the ground when the wind tried to lift me off them. It was so strong when it hit me that it felt like a big hand curling around my legs. It tugged so insistently that I was sure I’d achieve liftoff like Piglet in the stories by AA Milne—to this day, on a big windy one, I’ll generally ask of no one in particular, “Can I fly Piglet next?”

Fast forward to November 2015. Ter and I had ventured out to do some Christmas shopping and the wind was so strong when we got home that folks were parking on Dallas Road to watch the ocean pound against the shore. I love a stormy ocean, and while I normally watch it from the shelter of my living room, this time, I couldn’t resist. “I have to go look,” I told Ter, and promptly left her to struggle with the shopping bags while I headed up to street level.

Our street sits a bit lower than the main road. How much lower became evident when I reached the top of the slope and was struck full in the face by a blast of salt spray—and this before I got across the road. I waited for a break in the traffic and crossed over to join the other nut cases hanging out by the railing.

Wind roaring. Surf crashing. Gulls hanging overhead. Kids in their twenties spreading their wings and leaning into the teeth of it, letting the wind hold them upright. Small dogs being carried because otherwise they’d be airborne. My vision immediately obscured by the spray on my glasses. The sheer force of the wind felt like that long-ago hand trying to push me back into traffic, shoving so hard that it seemed almost enraged. I fought back, kept my feet, staggered a few steps along the sidewalk. You can’t breathe in wind that strong; it jams itself down your throat and stays there. And all the while, you are reminded of how fragile, how mortal, you are against this heaving, howling, living entity.

Jesu Maria. Get me out of this.

With the wind helping me along, I trip-and-a-trip-trip-tripped back toward home, where Ter had managed to secure the Tiguan by the curb and wrestle our loot into the house. “Well?” she asked from the top of the stairs. “How was it?”

“One of the stupidest things I’ve ever done,” I replied, gasping.

“Yah,” she said, “while I was trying to drop the hatch on Tiggy, the wind swooped in and snatched one of the empty grocery bags. The last I saw, it was zipping toward Moss Rock Park.”

I could very easily have gone the same route.

Last week, the west coast was treated to a hat trick of storms over three days, ending with the remains of Typhoon Songda predicted to be the most intense of the trio. Once again, folks pulled over to watch the ocean do its thing. Ter parked Tiggy behind the house for the third act, as did most of the neighbours. The street out front was empty that night. The wind ramped up for a bit of a show before dinner, then died back by eight and never really took off.

I didn’t even try to go outside.

SCOBY-Doo

I may not be mother to mortal children, but I seem to have a knack for breeding SCOBYs.

How hard can it be to breed spludges of yeast and bacteria, you ask? Not very, I admit. And the more batches of kombucha I brew, the easier it gets. I’m presently fermenting my nth batch (truly, I’ve lost count), and the mass I received from my older sister at Christmas never dreamed he’d have to work so hard.

I was a nervous novice and emailed my sister in a mild panic after three days: He’s just lying at the bottom of the jar. Is he okay??? She wrote back, They do that sometimes. I’m sure he’s fine. And on the fifth day, he rose. I checked the jar in the morning and he had floated onto one side, almost as if trying to himself over and getting stuck halfway. Okay, at least he’s alive. And when I peeled back the cheesecloth to test the brew on day seven, the mouth of the jar was sealed by a white film disconcertingly reminiscent of the white of an eye. Doo was floating just beneath it. In fact, he was tethered to it like the mothership spooling line to a satellite. Yuk.

It’s not unusual, apparently, for baby SCOBYs to develop in the same jar.

Batch number two proceeded the same way. This time I was hoping for a baby, because my tea buddy Treena wanted to try brewing her own kombucha, but if there was a baby, it was glommed to the original when bottling time arrived and I wound up (okay, Ter wound up) carving off a chunk of the whole thing. That batch was made with black tea, so the SCOBY looked like he’d been to a tanning salon. Double yuk.

A few brews later, another buddy expressed an interest in obtaining a baby. I had a batch planned for the weekend and promised her any offspring. From the get-go, SCOBY-Doo stayed near the top of the jar, but in the end proved as fertile as ever, producing a sturdy white sclera. To ensure that it was up to the task, I gave Doo a rest and plunked the babe into a fresh batch of sugared green tea.

It sank to the bottom of the jar and stayed there for twelve full days.

Peeling back the cheesecloth on day fourteen, I was puzzled by the papery thin film that greeted me. “Wasn’t it thicker than this?” I asked Ter, who has SCOBY-handling duty and is responsible for bathing and trimming the Doo between batches.

“I think it’s actually at the bottom,” she replied.

“You mean it never moved?” I peered through the glass at the fog I had perceived as just that: the milky fog that sometimes sinks like sediment on the floor of the jar. Remaining unconvinced, I strained the tea and Ter was proven right: baby-Doo had never left the floor!

The next day I told my friend the story and added, “Your SCOBY is a lazy bum.”

She was ecstatic. “You mean he made a baby to do the work? That’s my kind of SCOBY!”

For the record, she has a child.

Kid Me Not

Do I regret not having children?

Nope.

Lately, however, I’ve discovered that other people’s children—namely newborns—possess a perilous charm all their own. Cuddling my  five-week-old great-niece caused a brief pang of something close to remorse that probably coincided with another ovum popping out of contention. Same thing with the downstairs neighbours’ newbie back in February; she was two weeks old and out like a light when I cradled her, and what a sweet warm weight she was, too.

She has since grown into a wriggler. I happened on her last week and was invited to get reacquainted while her mum and I chatted. She’s three months old and able to sit in the crook of my arm, but man, she was a pedaling fury the whole time. Still sweet and warm, but … back to Mum you go, kiddo!

Would I have been a good mother?

Dunno. I like to think so, but only an adult child can say whether their mother was a good one, and it’s a credit to mine that all five of her kids adore her. Since I have no children, adult or otherwise, I can’t answer that question.

Am I a good aunt?

I love my nieces and nephews, but that’s about it. I’m not a hands-on auntie, and in truth, I relate better to the next generation now that they’re having kids of their own.

I don’t relate well to children.

Which doesn’t explain why I write about them so much. one of my favourite characters is twelve years old—and a real handful, to boot. Her best friend is one of a litter, and they run riot across the pages of whatever Fixed Fire story is in progress. And more are coming, as heroes and heroines fall in love. It seems that a babe is always pending, so what gives?