Maya lives next door. She is supposed to be a house cat, but likes to roam. A few years ago while not yet fully grown, she ran away from home. Her owners looked for her and were hopeful for her return. After three months she was found wandering around a cemetery about 3 kilometres away. Now she is one of the cats who stop by often to visit. Yesterday she was at the door while one of her teenage owners was here for a piano lesson!
I used to run away from home. I wasn’t an overly happy child, and was given the nickname ”Sad-sack-Sandra” by my family. I don’t think I was always sad, just quiet. So quiet that everyone assumed I was sad. I think it was more a case of being misunderstood.
There were days when I was definitely unhappy, misunderstood and sad. Those were the days I would sneak out of the house unnoticed (that was easy because I was often invisible to my family) and then just as quietly, I would sneak back in. Thinking back to my childhood, the times that I ran away from home were related to being bullied, or treated unfairly. At least I thought I was being treated unfairly.
I returned before my parents even knew that I was gone. Getting in trouble was not my intention — I hated getting in trouble for anything and went to great lengths to avoid it. The running away was a chance for me to be truly alone and breathe.
As an adult, running away took on different forms: escaping bad marriages, finding new jobs, moving to a different house or different city. Starting over always seems easier to me than facing the current situation, or dealing with the past.
There is a song called ”Children will Listen” from the musical ”Into the Woods”. It is a song sung to the father who had no father and is afraid because he doesn’t have an example of how to raise his own child.
Careful the things you say, children will listen
Careful the things you do, children will see and learn
Children may not obey, but children will listen…
Stephen Sondheim
I tend to turn that around, and wonder what it was that I did that caused my children to display certain characteristics. What could I have done differently? What did I learn from my parents and unknowingly passed on to my children? Will they pass those behaviours onto their own children?
Lately these caterpillars are showing up all over; on the side of the house, on the sidewalk, on the front door, in the bushes. I sweep them away when I have time and sometimes I just walk past.
I am curious to know what they will become but I haven’t had much success identifying them. Will they transform into a beautiful butterfly or into a rather plain moth? Naturally, I would prefer butterflies. One has to look much more closely to find the beauty in a moth.
This morning I feel much like those caterpillars, wandering around looking for that perfect spot to build a protective cocoon while I transform into the mystery that awaits. Or am I building a chrysalis to become a butterfly? Whatever it is, I am searching for a way to protect myself and give myself time to heal.
My process is more like tearing away rather than building. I suppose building a protective cocoon involves removing things in my life that have caused harm.
Do you see the smile on her face? Peace, happiness, joy. She looks so alive!
When my father was visiting this past September he struggled to walk very far so we went for lots of drives. After spending a year and a half isolated in his home, caring for my mother, at the age of 90 dad had lost much of his strength. Before the pandemic he often walked to the office, or drove nearby and walked the remaining distance. Dad was extremely active as a full-time volunteer right up until the office was closed down because of the lockdown.
The week he spent with me was his first chance to get away and relax for two years. We made it feel like a real holiday, and toured around southern Vancouver Island.
The large female figure, rising from the Salish Sea, personifies the beautiful spirit of this place with its unstoppable elements of wind and time. With her knowing smile she seems to say that she has seen it all, and knows what is to come!
Lindalindsaysculpture.com
Time is unstoppable….it just keeps going. We can never go back and redo anything, but we can change what we do and what we value moving forward.
That week in September was a pivotal point in my life, when I realized that life does not go on forever. There will be a point when I face death, and whether that is soon or far in the future, I don’t want regrets. I don’t want to think that I spent so much of my life working that I have not built strong relationships with family and friends.
I had just finished a lesson in front of my computer and was startled by a loud thud against the window. The cat who visits daily at my patio doors to get a drink of fresh water from Toffee’s dish, had jumped up on my window box to get a better look at me.
The house where I lived between the ages of 8 and 18 had large living room windows, plus French doors that opened up to the patio in the back. One could see directly through from the front yard to the back yard. Every year we would hear and see several birds fly into the front windows. Some flew off, slightly wounded and confused; others lay on the ground semi-conscious for a few minutes then flew away; others died from broken necks or serious head injury. We weren’t sure if they flew into the window because they saw the reflection of the trees in the front yard, or if they were heading for the trees in the back yard, or perhaps they were drunk after gorging themselves on the fermenting yew berries.
I don’t think the cat was looking for anything in particular yesterday. When he comes to drink water he does make sure I’m watching him, although he won’t let me get too close. Sometimes I look out and see him chasing squirrels. One day last January I watched him as he moved slowly, pausing, moving a bit in slow motion, sneaking up on another cat that was sitting at my patio doors, watching me. Scamp (today I decided I would give him a suitable name) got closer and closer to the other cat, until reached out his paw and swatted it on the back, resulting in a bit of a cat fight.
I’m getting to like having Scamp around. The window between us protects me from allergic reaction, and I get to enjoy his company and his antics.
The car was not my car. It was left behind for me to use when my parents moved away. It came with the house. I can’t even recall the colour, or the model or make. The car was what I learned to drive at the age of 16, a few years before my parents moved. The stick shift made me feel so powerful, and it was enough years ago that ordinary people like me could figure out how to fix the engine when it wasn’t working quite right, or when I managed to flood the gas.
When I felt like taking the canoe for a dip, the car would take me to the lake. It was small enough that I could easily get the canoe on top and tied on tightly. The car meant freedom. It allowed me to go for drives and it kept me in touch with nature and sometimes with friends.
But, what the car was really helpful for was the weekly trip to a neighbouring town for music lessons. Those 105 kilometres became my personal retreat and the car, my oasis. There was an 8-track player and several 8-track cartridges. The one I listened to most frequently, at least once or twice every trip, was Elton John’s Greatest Hits from 1974.
Okay…..I couldn’t resist listening again, and I have been playing “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” on YouTube. In all those years of loving this song, I have never once until today looked up the lyrics. I wondered why he would write about “can’t plan meeting your penpal”, or “should have stayed on the phone”, and many random words that made no sense, but I trusted that it made sense to someone. (did I make you look up the lyrics?)
My special treat on those trips was to stop at the grocery store and pick up a grapefruit, then the car would take me to a beautiful picnic area beside a creek. Sitting beside the creek, savouring the tang of the grapefruit, and marvelling at the peaceful beauty of the seasons. In winter the ice would reflect the sunshine while evergreens contrasted with the leaf-less birch trees, in the spring the water rushed more swiftly down the creek as shrubs and trees turned green again, in the autumn the changing from green to yellow, red and brown was breath-taking.
The car saw me through my first year of growing up and living alone. The music that I could listen to in the car kept me focused and awake for the journey. The side trips and stops along the way strengthened me for the days ahead.
Today is the 1st day of May. Another page in my Irish blessing calendar is flipped.
May the good saints protect you
And bless you today,
And may troubles ignore you
Each step of the way.
Irish blessing
Actually, I started writing this blog post 4 months ago on January 1st. A lot has changed since then. My neighbours added 5 more hens to their coop, which means in a short while they will be collecting 10 eggs a day instead of 5. Several cats continue to check in on me throughout the day. More about that later. A war has started, bringing anguish and fear to people around the world, and especially to those living in Ukraine.
January 1st felt like the start of better things. I remained hopefully for at least a few hours, if not a few days. That has changed. For now, read what I left unfinished 4 months ago…..
Standing in front of my computer, I look out at my living room (actually it is my practicing, teaching, computer and storage room now) to watch the squirrels jump from branch to branch through my rhododendrons. They have moved on now to the neighbour’s cedar trees, but are still playfully chasing each other.
It’s the first day of the new year, and I have spent the morning sorting through some book shelves looking to see what needs to go, and what after 30 years I haven’t even started to read. I’m not a hoarder, I don’t think, but I sure have collected a lot of things.
Today is the first day of the new year, and so far there have been no major catastrophes. Of course, it’s only the first day, and it is on a weekend when news stories are scarce, but I am hopeful.
Nine years ago I started a program of study which brought me to Victoria every few months. One day in April I took some time to walk through the gardens at the Government House. I was captivated by the beauty of the Rhododendrons. That day I made a decision to eventually move here.
When a part-time job became available in the fall, I applied and was accepted. My realtor knew I had only one day to find a home, and showed me this townhouse that was not yet listed, just in case I was interested. When I walked in the door I knew it was my home.
The truth is, I had no idea how many wonderful surprises awaited me once I moved here. The house was situated in a neighbourhood very close to my work downtown. If you have ever viewed 9 homes in one day, in a city where you had very little idea of the general layout, you might understand how I could choose a house without really knowing where it was located! For me, the important thing was the functionality of the home. Could I teach in it? Would I be able to practice the piano without disturbing the neighbours?
During that first spring I saw so much beauty in our strata yard as each day revealed more and more of the flowers and plants that in the fall and winter were resting. We have several Rhododendrons of various colours. The bright red one blooms early and right now is fading. The smaller azaleas, scattered throughout the gardens are starting to bloom. This pink Rhododendron is nearing it’s prime, and the others that will bloom with lighter pink, yellow and white clusters of flowers are barely budding right now. They follow the lilacs that are getting ready to bloom. The bees and hummingbirds seem to find natural food most months of the year in their world which is our garden.
A couple of weeks ago my neighbours left town to spend a month in the prairies with their daughter’s family. Two weeks later they are on their way home — tired already of the winter conditions that still exist in the prairies. I think I understand how they feel. Even though I have no family on the island here, this is my home, and I don’t want to stray far from it for very long. It would be hard to imagine not being surrounded by this beauty for more than a few days!
As I unlocked and entered my early morning teaching room, my first thought was how much this circle of chairs looked like a group hug, or a circle of friends holding hands. The silent room was warmed by sunlight shining through the stained glass windows. Each circle of chairs, including some groups of 4 identical chairs surrounding card tables, reminded me of the “old days”. Days when after worship services or concerts friends and strangers would mingle with cups of tea or coffee in their hands, chattering and greeting each other. Days when we would participate in meetings, planning organ festivals and other exciting events. This room has been mostly silent for two years, but yesterday morning the chairs seemed eager to welcome people back.
And as they welcome people back, I am slowly and quietly sneaking away. I don’t want to return to crowded rooms with people eager to interrogate me on how I spent my week. I don’t want to have to constantly invent ways to avoid hugs and hand-shakes. It’s so much easier to be in a safe place, alone or with people who understand my need for separation and distance.
Don’t get me wrong — I like people, and I enjoy good conversation, but I need an escape route. I need to have control over how close I get to others. I have appreciated the safety of the Zoom screen. Empty chairs remain inviting, especially as long as they remain empty.
My daughter asked me the other day if I had any old photos of her in traditional Thai dance costume…so I searched. I searched through a box of old photos from the days before digital cameras and iPhones. The search took me very quickly through some fond memories of years gone by. Although no Thai dance costumes showed up, the search renewed some questions.
Family photo
The family in this photo consists of my niece, Bow at the age of 3 or 4, her grandfather (my father-in-law) and faintly inside the house is my very pregnant sister-in-law. My father-in-law’s Thai name is Pom, which translates as ”Skinny”. Grandpa Skinny loved his grandchildren, and his children and the extended family. He showed compassion and kindness to everyone he met. Many years before this photo was taken he suffered from cancer in his mouth and tongue, and following surgery that lasted many hours he was sent home to spend his last few weeks. Being the stubborn man that he was, Grandpa Skinny spent his waking hours praying, asking God for a few more years. He lived for many more years and was there to help me begin to learn Thai and to settle into this new family.
Bow loved me, and wanted so much to be just like me. When she claimed that she didn’t like tomatoes she was told that I ate tomatoes and if she wanted to be just like me, she should also eat tomatoes. I wonder if she still eats them!!
Bow’s mom was pregnant 4 times, bringing each child to full term. Bow was the only child who survived birth. They lived in a small village in the south of Thailand—would any of these three children have survived if they lived in the city? It’s a good question, but one that nobody seemed to ask. At the time I was young and naive, and had no concept of how much anguish she must have experienced, and how that loss and grief would have affected her and Bow. There was no funeral or memorial service, probably because each child was still-born. Even though in Thailand Christians were buried rather than cremated (Buddhist believers were cremated), there was no grave for these children. Why didn’t I ask about this?
After my own brother, Ron, died at the age of 27 my mother shut down. She didn’t participate willingly in much for years, and we weren’t encouraged to talk about him, or about anything from the past. Finally after about 20 years we started remembering his life by sending mom flowers on his birthday. My children have produced some memory books for big celebrations, which have included photos of my brother. But, mom chose to not talk about him as it seemed to bring her too much pain. Dad would set up the Christmas tree on his own each year since mom didn’t even want to celebrate Christmas — it wasn’t worth celebrating without my brother. Now when we show her photos of Ron, she asks who he is. Is the dementia erasing even the memory of her favourite child?
Grandpa Skinny passed away 3 months after my first child was born. He did get to meet her on one of our trips to his home, while he was suffering from the prostate cancer that took him in the end. He blessed her with a Chinese name which was chosen before her birth just in case he didn’t make. A large framed photo of my father-in-law was placed in a prominent place in the living room of that humble home in the south of Thailand. He was talked about, and still is remembered lovingly. Why the difference? Is it because he lived a long full life, and my brother was in his 20s, and my 3 stillborn nieces or nephews had not even lived a day?
Reflections 