Yesterday evening I played at the first in-person service since March 2020. At this particular church the congregation have a strong faith in healing; firmly believing that God’s love heals. I am hired to provide piano and organ music on Wednesday evenings. For the first year of the pandemic the music for their Zoom services was obtained online, but for the past several months I have been providing it from my home, on Zoom.
There were technical issues last night with hybrid service — in person people could not hear those who were speaking on Zoom, and Zoom people could not hear most speakers in the church. Everything is run by volunteers so there are bound to be difficulties at first.
When I got home I had a phone conversation with a rather impatient person who was hosting the Zoom part of the hybrid service. He asked my why I would need to wear a mask, and told me that if I insisted on wearing a mask to not bother singing because no one can hear people singing with a mask! I mentioned that in other churches those who sing wear masks, and I was heard quite well last Sunday when singing with a small group for another service. The fact that they couldn’t hear people speaking while maskless last night didn’t seem to be connected in his mind.
I was the only person wearing a mask at the service last night, but I understand how the others in the building would not think they need one. The was a very small group of people in quite a large space. Throughout the pandemic many of them have met regularly for small meetings, and they are staying within this bubble. I am not a part of their “bubble”, and since I have to continue to teach and work, I will continue to be extra cautious. Besides, all one needs to do is listen to the news to recognize that this virus is not going away. AND I also realize that many individual members will choose to trust in their faith rather than get the vaccine.
Last night was the first time since I started wearing masks a year ago that I was made to feel like I had to defend my position on mask-wearing. Even when shopping and no-one else was choosing to protect themselves and each other, nobody questioned why I chose to wear a mask. There were a couple of ladies who came up to talk to me after the service, and both of them put on a mask in order to come closer to me. They were aware of my obvious level of risk tolerance, and sympathetic. Another person asked if I would prefer that everyone wore a mask for the service. If the gig didn’t provide a consistent weekly income (not large, but enough for groceries) I would easily leave it.
We’ll see what the people decide this coming week. In a weird way I was not hurt by this person’s tone and words, but the conversation did keep me up most of the night. His words churning around in my head, and the responses I could have made if I had any warning or indication that this person, whom I thought was extremely kind and gentle, could also have an impatient side, verging on rude.
The pandemic is certainly exposing what is really hiding behind peoples’ real or imagined masks.
The question was making it’s way around Facebook not long ago — “how many different homes have you lived in?” I ran out of patience to answer that question, but today I decided to attempt an answer.
There was the first house where we lived until I was 6 years old. I remember the backyard with birch trees and a sandbox, and a picnic table where we would eat dinner in warmer weather. Beyond the backyard was a field, and beyond that the elementary school where my older brother attended for one year. My older brother and I shared a bedroom, and the twins shared the other. I’m not sure how long that lasted, but I do remember having my brother sleep in the upper bunk.
Next we moved to a small cabin in a village near the town where my dad travelled to work. There was a small creek running by the cabin. My brothers found and captured a small lizard with the intention of scaring my mother. It worked! The cabin had rats in the crawl space beneath it and in the attic. If the toilet flushed while the bathtub was drain we would have a flood somewhere. The place smelled like a sewer overflow, and I suffered with stomach problems for the 2 months that we lived there. My older brother and I attended a small, two-room elementary school. Grades 1 to 3 were in one classroom, and the “mature” students were in the other classroom taught by the husband of my teacher.
The next two years were spent in town, in a spacious house with three bedrooms, and nice backyard, and beautiful mirror in the front entrance, giving the impression of an even larger space. Our school was located on the road that extended from our front yard. We would walk to school and home again. It was a safe neighbourhood, and we had a lot of freedom to wander unsupervised. One morning the bus driver stopped to pick us up half-way down the road, and let my little brother sit on his lap and drive the bus the rest of the way to school. In these days, that driver would lose his job if people found out that he let a 6 year old drive his bus! During those two years I was happy; I had several friends, and I loved my kind teachers.
We moved again during summer between grades 2 and 3. The new town was not as willing to embrace a new family, or at least that is how I felt. It was many years before I was comfortable enough to seek friends and talk to others in my class. I do recall having a fairly close network of friends in grade 9. I had to be careful because even then some of them thought nothing of betraying trust. The house we lived in during those years was comfortable. I shared a bedroom in the basement with my sister. We had an imaginary line drawn down the middle — okay, sometimes it was not imaginary, but made clear with a skipping rope, then a long double-desk. We were not to mess with anything in each other’s side of the room. My floor was clear of clutter; her floor was hard to see until each evening when my mom would help her put her clothes away in the closet.
I remember the huge cupboards along the wall on my half of the bedroom. Sometimes I would need to hide, and would crawl into the lower shelf and sleep for the night. It was kind of like a sanctuary, and a place I could escape from the world for short periods of time. The window above our desks (until those were moved and replaced by our dressers) was high, but at ground level outside. It was from those windows where I would escape and run away. Each time I ran away I was too afraid of the trouble I would be in if I got caught, so I wasn’t gone long enough to get noticed. Once I remember taking my wallet with a few dollars, but I was far too afraid to go into a store in case I was recognized. As I grew up, my escapades happened late at night after my parents were asleep. For years I couldn’t sleep easily, and instead of lying in bed churning I would go for a walk. I wonder if anyone ever told my parents. It was a small town, and a lot of people would have recognized the principal’s daughter, but I never got in trouble.
My final year in that house was fantastic! I had graduated from high school, and working toward a diploma while teaching private lessons and substituting at local schools. My parents had moved, and I was in charge of taking care of the house. The freedom was so welcome, even with the responsibility of cleaning and yard work. I felt like an adult.
Before that final year, I lived in Australia as an exchange student. During those 11 months I was welcomed into 4 different homes. Each home had a different culture and way of life. The first was the home of the school head master, with 3 other children. We spent hours in the school library doing homework after school. I stayed in my bedroom while at the house, since mixing with the family was difficult and awkward, although the mother was very kind to me. My second home in Australia was on a property of over 3000 acres. There was so much room to wander, although I didn’t go very far. The couple who lived there and directed the work at the property were very special people and I really felt at home there. In fact, the people who placed me in each home insisted that I return there for the final couple of months, as the 5th home was not suitable. (I heard the father was angry that his daughter was not chosen as an exchange student, and therefore he would not treat me kindly).
This particular couple, at the 2nd home, had routines that reflected their love and care for each other. In the morning Mr. B would bring Mrs. B a cup of tea and biscuit, then go out to feed the cows and do some work that needed urgent attention. When he came in Mrs. B had already prepared breakfast of cereal, followed by steak and eggs, or something else equally delicious and fortifying. Afternoon tea was a special time. Mrs. B waited until I returned home from school, and sometimes we were joined by Mr. B. It was a time to discuss what happened during the day, talk about Australia, talk about old days, share news of the community and events that would be happening. They insisted that I learn to dance so that I could enjoy the community balls. In the evenings after a light dinner, we would often sit on their screened-in veranda watching TV and sharing a chocolate bar. I loved that home!
The third home in Australia was with a couple who owned and worked at the local pharmacy/chemist’s. They were a modern couple, and their children attended boarding school in a larger town. I was warned the first day that when I needed to use the washroom that I must lock the door. This family used the washroom together, and it was the place where they talked about everything important, much like the previous family used tea time for those discussions. During the stay at this home I spent much of my time practicing the piano at someone else’s house. I remember the lady there, who loved to hear the piano, would make tea for me each day when I finished practicing. And each time she would have a competition between the electric kettle, and the stove-top kettle (on a wood-burning stove) to see which came to a boil sooner. I honestly don’t recall which was faster, but it was fun to see someone so excited about that!
My fourth home in Australia was with an older couple, but I can’t remember where the husband worked, or anything about them. Another exchange student was staying with them at the same time. He was from Texas, and was with a different organization. We tolerated each other, and were polite, but not best friends. This home was only a few blocks away from the school. It was a comfortable couple of months with a few occurrences that stand out in my memory. One was the unique way our host mom would serve French toast. She would fry up the French toast (which was delicious) and just place it on the table, on the plastic table cover, without a plate. We would eat it from a plate of course, with ketchup.
Following my final year as mentioned earlier in the family home all by myself, I went off to college, and stayed in residence for two years. Halfway through my first year in college an illness required me to be sent home to my parent’s new home for about 4-5 months of bedrest. This place was nice, but I felt like a guest staying temporarily, so it really didn’t feel like my home at all. Once I was healthy again I returned for my second year at college.
My next home was in a small two bedroom apartment in downtown Bangkok. Our kitchen was out on the balcony where we had a small propane stove and a sink. Our furniture consisted of a bed in each bedroom (we always had friends and/or nephews staying with us) and a large, low table/bed/not sure. It was a queen-sized daybed which we used for many things, including eating, folding laundry, guest bed and storage. We stayed at this apartment while the church was being built. Our next home was in the back portion of the church building. It was larger than the apartment and was a community gathering place, especially on Sundays. Privacy was apparently not something I should have expected! The floor was concrete in most of the rooms, and ceramic tile in the bathroom. This home, obviously, did not feel like my home since the door was always open for church members to stop by anytime for meals or conversation, or just to check out what white women did…..
Shortly after the birth of our third child we moved to a duplex in a housing development outside of Bangkok, although still very much a part of a large city. I stayed there until returning to Canada. During our time in that home we had many relatives and nannies also sharing the living space. Again, privacy was not a thing!
My children and I moved back to Canada and after 6 weeks living with my parents, we moved into a mobile home where we stayed for about 9 months. From there we moved to a home in a smallish community where we endured several years of abuse and torment before finding a 100 year old cottage to rent. That place, although it was not a permanent home, felt like a home I had longed for for years. Walking in through the doors was like walking into a warm and loving embrace. There was safety and freedom there, and it was in that home that I experienced so much love and care from the community around us. Strangers would do things for us — a friend of a friend stopped by one day to fix my front door so that it would close properly. He wouldn’t accept money, but gave us tickets to a concert. Another day a friend’s son came by unexpectedly to mow the lawn and till the garden. Others dropped off gifts, and checked in regularly to make sure we were okay. The young lady who rented the basement became close friends with me and my two daughters who were still in high school.
That is a lot of homes! Not including a short-term rental, there were three homes in the next city we lived in. And now, where I am living now, I finally feel like I am home. As a child I would dream of living in a cabin in the woods, with forests around me, and no one to bother me. This is the closest I will most likely come to that dream. I look out my windows and see trees, shrubs, ferns and some flowers. Several times a week I watch the deer walking through my backyard to find shade and solace in the neighbour’s yard, beside their chicken pen. I see raccoons and squirrels daily, yet I am very close to the city centre. My perfect spot is not without problems, but who doesn’t have issues with the odd neighbour?
My neighbour’s hens; a deer checking out a squirrel trap; the new landscaping.
I was minding my own business, standing across the street, listening to a jazz concert in the local church parking lot. It was a nice change from staying home all alone. A man came and stood not far from me during the last song of the afternoon and asked me some questions about the event. We chatted for a while, then when everyone else started to disperse he began to tell me about his experience with Covid…..back in October, 2019.
It’s not often I can easily strike up a conversation with a stranger, but today I felt like taking a bit of a risk, living on the edge.
When he started sharing his symptoms, including serious diarrhea I noticed the droplets spray from his lips. Fortunately he didn’t really look at me when he talked, so the droplets flew in front of him toward the street. I should have clued in when he mentioned that he gets his “truth” from Rebel News, and that the government is hiding a lot from us. The government never tells us the truth, according to him, therefore there is a lot about the virus that we don’t know…..like how 63% of British citizens who received the vaccine are suffering with mini blood clots.
The vaccine is experimental and will be for the next 10 years. There is no way he is going to let anybody force him into getting vaccinated. He doesn’t believe Covid is a hoax, but is convinced that it is a threat to only 99.9% of the population. After all, 33% of all senior home deaths were caused from dehydration, not Covid. Although the whistleblower who made this claim (according to the random stranger) was quickly silenced and told not to speak publicly again. The stranger’s parting words to me — I’m sure he realized that I wasn’t falling for much of what he said — was to keep my eyes open and read a variety of news sources.
When I got home I sanitized everything that I had touched…my phone, the door knob, the cupboard door that I had to touch to reach the lysol wipes. Ick. And I was standing less than two metres away from him. I was so convinced that people in my city were educated and willing to listen to the science.
No more “living on the edge”. I will only talk to people whom I know, or have at least been referred to me by sane friends.
My little protector is gone. People can ring my doorbell or knock on the door and nobody barks. It’s just quiet…so quiet.
belly rubs
My neighbour whose two children have studied with me for several years let me know how sad they all are that Toffee is gone. Her son, when he started lessons with me was absolutely terrified of all dogs, including Toffee. For weeks Toffee knew he had to stay in his crate. Then gradually I could let him out, but hold on to the leash during the lesson. Finally one day “A” let Toffee sniff his feet. At the lesson two weeks ago I could see how much “A” had changed as the first thing he did when he came in the door was encourage Toffee to roll over for the weekly belly rub.
Enjoying the attention from piano students.
Toffee loved it when students would come to make music, and especially when siblings had to wait and could give him some undivided attention. The pandemic changed that, and he became lonely at times since students were not able to come to the house….but during online lessons Toffee could be found under the piano or on his favourite chair, listening and resting.
Toffee’s chair.
I promise I’ll move on from this wallowing in self-pity and loneliness, but I need a few more days just to remember, with tears.
Today I said goodbye to my companion of over 11 years. Toffee was a gift to me, discovered by my children, to help me cope with the death of my husband, Michael. It is hard to believe how attached one can become to an animal, even a person like me who was never very fond of dogs to begin with! I loved Toffee so much, and have become very used to having him close by. After leaving him at the hospital last night and coming home to an empty house, I could still hear him sneaking up behind me, and feeling him following me around the house.
This afternoon after the doctors told me how little hope there was of recovery, and after discussions with my children and close friends, I decided that Toffee did not need to endure any more days of pain, and solitude. He was brought to me wrapped in a blanket, staring up at me, and looking into my eyes until his last breath.
On top of the world…..at least on the roof of the coffee shop!
I had no idea that our walk yesterday would end up being out last walk. He was always so excited to go anywhere with me. Sometimes I would take him out to the garage to sit in the car while I sorted music books, sorted recycling, or cleaned up the garage. He was happy to go on those little “trips” with me.
Toffee loved to listen to me practice piano, organ, singing, and was especially excited when I had students come over for piano lessons. Music calmed him and allowed him a chance to sleep for hours during the day.
Toffee waiting for a student to walk in the door.
There are way too many memories to list in one blog post. I’ll write more in future days when my eyes are no longer full of tears.
Today is Emile’s birthday. He was my stepson, the very beloved son of Michael. Emile died in October, 2014. His father, Michael died in February 2010. I will probably never know or understand what made Emile give up on life. His father died of a brain tumour. They were close, though not overly close. I doubt that it was heartbreak, but maybe it was.
This picture was taken at our wedding. Emile was there, and he returned not many months later for Michael’s funeral.
Normally June 16 goes by with a brief thought of Emile, wondering what happened. Why did he give? How was it that none of his closest friends had any idea that he was struggling? Was there anything I could have done, but didn’t know. Today there were many tears…I don’t know why.
Recently a family in London, Ontario (where Emile had lived with his mother and extended family) was killed by a young man who attacked them because they were Muslim. Emile’s extended family is also Muslim.
In October, 2014, I flew to London, Ontario to attend Emile’s funeral. I knew absolutely nothing about Muslim tradition, and expected behaviour at worship and at funerals. The taxi driver who drove me from the airport to the hotel, then again to the funeral was very kind, and answered my many questions. At the funeral I wore a head-scarf at the appropriate times, remembered to remove my shoes before entering the worship area, and encountered love that is not often experienced. Emile’s mom and I connected for the very first time. She was grieving, but wanted me to be near her. I haven’t had a chance to speak to her since the funeral, but the memory of that day will always be with me.
Growing up in a small town, in the Christian tradition, I was not exposed much to differences in belief systems. I lived in Thailand for 10 years, the wife of a Christian minister. During that time I was aware of Buddhist, Animist and Muslim religions, but did not take the time to really study them, or try to understand their beliefs. I knew many people who believed in each of those religions but never asked questions. The older I get, the more I realize that there is so much more to learn.
Emile’s birthday is a reminder to stay connected to those whom I love, and to stay open to differences. And to keep moving forward. It is too easy to get stuck kicking myself in the butt, wishing I had done things differently. I could have tried to phone Emile more frequently, or emailed regularly. But those thoughts serve no purpose now. The important thing now is to stay connected, keep in touch and accept differences.
This morning I met a friend at a coffee shop, and we sat outside enjoying a conversation over morning coffee. Before the pandemic started this was a regular occurrence, but in the past year we have only tried 2 or 3 times. Both of us are very concerned about our own, and each other’s health and were too scared regarding Covid exposure.
Today’s conversation was centred around checking in on what has happened personally during the past year. My friend commented, and I agreed that we have both enjoyed the increased isolation, and separation from crowds. We like to spend time alone, and are both dreading the return to “normal” where we might be expected to occasionally be surrounded by large groups of people, e.g. in church or in concerts.
But, one thing that I wasn’t expecting to hear was that my friend who is now 75 years old, has spent a lot of time lately reflecting on the poor decisions he has made in his life, and how they have affected his current situation. He stated that walking away from relationships without attempting to fight for his fair share of the home and finances has left him unable to buy a home, or support his family like he would have hoped. He was surprised at how often during this past year he has found himself dwelling on the negative outcomes of his experience, even though he realizes that he does have a good life.
I tried to remind him how other people view him, and how they respect him and think he is such a generous and caring person. We agreed that having more time to ourselves this year has given us perhaps too much time to reflect. Or is it too much time? Should we all spend more time reflecting, and trying to sort through issues that we have never dealt with? Is the purpose of all the busy work in our lives just to keep us from doing any soul-searching, and potentially digging up baggage that we should really confront and resolve?
Every few years I find that I have taken on too much work, whether paid or volunteer. When our province shut down last spring to stop or slow down the spread of Covid-19, I found the extra time to reflect on my life was very unusual. In fact, I looked for small projects just to keep me busy. I caught up on many, many hours of sleep by napping every afternoon. I played through several of my piano books to find pieces that I wanted to perform even though there were no plans for concerts. I watched endless amounts of YouTube videos and webinars, participated in Zoom calls, listened to hours and hours of news broadcasts…
Those were some of the activities that kept me unavailable for dark thoughts to surface. They also kept me from soul-searching and bringing up past hurts that I haven’t resolved. Then, of course, I got busy again with double the number of students, and other live-streaming and recording activities. And now I’m worn out!! I have one more week of a full load of teaching, and I am finally again looking forward to some time off. Maybe, just maybe I might find some time to retreat into myself and work through cleaning some of the dark corners of my life story.
Journalling and keeping this blog have provided a gentle chance to do some reflecting. Nothing serious, but a starting point. Hopefully in the coming months I will continue to dig deeper into past experiences that are still affecting me. Wow….that could get interesting!
This morning I watched a film that was shared in a Facebook group which I was invited to join. The group was formed recently because of our local school district’s plan to axe the elementary and middle school music programs because of money problems. I won’t go into the details, or even my opinion of the inability of the school trustees and administration to listen, or to think and plan creatively. The film was “Silence of the Strings: A Community Movement for Music”, released in 2002 and documents the community support behind students attempt to change the direction of the school board.
One successful violinist who got her start in the elementary strings program at a local school, said “music is an escape”. She was talking about music providing youth with an “escape” that was a real alternative to other escapes such as drugs.
In 2002, following a two year battle, the youth and wider community of Victoria were able to convince the school board to reinstate the strings program in elementary schools. Not only were professional musicians involved in supporting the initiative, but a famous local artist provided funding and donated paintings to support the program.
Once again, in 2021 the school board is working on slashing not only elementary strings, but full middle school choir and band programs in the district. There is once again a community uproar against a very stubborn but slim majority of the trustees who refuse to listen, and are incapable of creative problem-solving. And also preferring an increase in their own take-home pay to constructive programs for youth.
Music as an escape….I have known and understood this concept for as long as I can remember. As a child I was extremely shy and chose to stay in my room or at the piano as much as possible. Meeting up with friends didn’t happen much. Perhaps that was because of restrictions and household rules, or maybe because I didn’t really have friends until partway through high school. It’s hard to find other kids wanting to hang out with someone who seldom speaks! So, I would practice, and learn to play other instruments. Piano was my first instrument, then trumpet, organ, guitar; then all the band instruments. It was easy for a non-social person to find 3 to 4 hours a day to practice. My escape place at school was the band room. I could hide away in the band library and file music, or retreat into a practice room to learn some new music or begin a new instrument.
The local school board has some difficult choices to deal with at the upcoming meeting. The community is angry, and anxious about the cuts not only to the music programs, but also to education assistance programs. We can feel sorry for the majority of the trustees and administrators who don’t have, and perhaps never have had music in their lives. That is my only explanation for their inability to see the importance of fine arts in students’ lives, and their inability to look at creative solutions. Also, their obvious inability to work collaboratively with others who might have different insight.
When life gets busy, journalling is the first activity to get put on the shelf. This probably should not be the case, but it happens.
Yesterday Toffee and I were out for a mid-afternoon walk, and while heading home and gentleman in shorts stopped to look at Toffee. Usually I don’t let Toffee approach strangers, as he is not always friendly, and seldom predictable. But this man looked gentle, and Toffee was quite happy to see him…besides, Toffee can’t resist licking bare legs! The two of them had a brief conversation, then the man stood up and looked at me. As his forehead turned red, and his eyes started to water, behind his mask he said “thank you for stopping to let me greet your dog”. I wanted to ask him if he was having a rough day, but didn’t know how a complete stranger would respond to that.
That man needed a few minutes to receive some unexpected affection (and gentle leg-licking) from a small dog to help fill up an emotional void left by unknown-to-me circumstances.
His mask was hiding a lot from me, but his eyes and his words revealed deep pain. I hope our brief encounter helped him face the rest of the day with a small amount of peace in his heart.
I keep thinking about that encounter; not only wondering about the stranger, but about how wearing masks has changed us, and how not wearing masks in the near future will affect me. When I walk Toffee, I normally do not wear a mask, since we are definitely staying outside. Although if the streets get crowded I put one on. With case transmission so low right now, outside mask wearing is probably not even necessary, so do I want to keep wearing a mask to keep hiding myself from other people? Are my feelings and emotions safer while wearing a mask?
I was reading a news article about a man who died in police custody. They were discussing the future of drunk tanks. This got me thinking back to the time I was in a drunk tank. That was about 17 years ago, or so.
One of my daughters wanted to change her surname back from the surname of her very abusive step-father. One last item on the long list of things she needed to do was to get her finger-prints taken at the police station. We went to the back door, as instructed, and were allowed in….to the drunk tank to sit and wait a few minutes until someone inside was free to take finger prints.
Those few minutes were okay at first, but after a half hour, I was feeling very claustrophobic and decided to leave. Well, the door is locked both from the inside and the outside, and there is a sound barrier between the drunk tank and the front desk. This was long before iPhone access to the internet, so after banging doors for a few minutes, and realizing I could no longer breathe properly because of the panic that had set in, I called my parents to find the non-emergency number for the police station. The person who answered could probably hear the fear and panic in my voice and arranged for someone to let me out, and for my daughter to get her finger-printing done.
They had forgotten us. That experience reinforced the claustrophobia brought about following a very abusive 2nd marriage.
Though the emotions felt during the pandemic have gone up and down like a roller-coaster, there are many things I am thankful for. Last night I listened on YouTube to the high school band concert that 2 of my students were participating in. Partway through the thought came to me that it was wonderful to be able to listen to these students, and not have to be crammed into a large auditorium. And then I started to dread having to go back to attending concerts in person.
I am thankful for the ability during the pandemic to spend so much time alone, and to not have others invading my personal space. I suppose the new fear and hesitation that I will encounter following the “return to normal” will be once again sharing space with others, including concerts and airports, and airplanes.
Reflections 