Reflections

Dead Wrong

This morning I decided to try to move out of my shell a bit, and joined in on the Hatch, a monthly virtual coffee hour for those who support the Isolation Journals. What I didn’t realize was that when we are encouraged to write it’s difficult to get started. So, I looked at one of the prompts from the month of April and decided to write about that.

Dead wrong is a subject that is easy for me! Immediately it took me back to my time as an exchange student in Australia. I had signed up to join about 30 other exchange students who came from many countries for a three week bus tour up the Eastern coast, then west and south through places like Ayers Rock.

I remember very quickly forming a dislike for one of the very outspoken girls from South Africa. She was bossy, and scared me. I stayed as far away from her as I could, just because I couldn’t imagine that she would be kind to me, or even like me. Within a few days many of the other teens also stayed away from her, and I saw that she was alone in setting up lunch for everyone (we took turns and helped each other on most days). So, without speaking, I started to help her with the tasks. Sharon warmed up to me…or maybe I was the one who warmed up to her? After that day we became closer and closer friends.

Following my year in Australia, Sharon and I kept in touch. I set a poem of hers to music. She made me a necklace out of beads (which I still have). We stayed in each other’s lives for a few years, then both got busy with raising families and work. Several years ago she found me on Facebook! It was so exciting to reconnect with Sharon, and I enjoy the odd random conversations that we have on Facebook.

I was so wrong regarding my first impressions of Sharon. She is a warm, loveable, caring person, intelligent and wise. Many times since that year I have approached strangers in a similar way, and reminded myself that perhaps I will be dead wrong about them as well. Perhaps the best way is to listen and watch before forming opinions?

I am kneeling in the front row, hanging onto my camera. Sharon is behind me to your right. Our only chaperones are on the camel.

Tired

I’m tired. Not just physically exhausted, but mentally and emotionally tired. Toffee tries hard to keep me going…he gets me up between 4 and 5 every morning just to get a head start on the day. But I had 3 late nights in a row, either because of meetings or participating in webinars. A big chunk of days is spent watching news videos, making me anxious about the state of the world, and how to plan for the near and distant future.

Our strata agreed to allow owners to plant 4′ by 4′ boxes of vegetables in the area behind our units. I share my box with my neighbour since I have no sunny spots appropriate for a garden box, and he is clueless about gardening. My neighbour bought several seedlings which we planted a few weeks ago. They are looking great and very appetizing! Toffee likes to convince me to go out there several times a day. He sits as close as he can to the kale, waiting for me to pick some crispy leaves for him. He loves the crisp and tangy radishes. But chard? Chard is the only vegetable I have seen Toffee chew for a few seconds then spit out! Today he finished a leaf of chard and was rewarded with a radish. If only life could be that simple and exciting for me as well!

This morning I plan to sit in on the Hatch, the Isolation Journals virtual coffee shop. I’m not much good at being social with people whom I have never met, and I hesitate to attend functions that I haven’t attended before, but I have to do something to get out of this downward spiral. I want some creative energy back in my life. I want to stop feeling like I am 2 seconds away from a flood of tears for no reason, or minutes away from a total breakdown.

Patience

Let me tell you about my first father-in-law. (yes I have been married more than once.) Skinny, the literal translation of his name, was a very spiritual man. Everywhere he went, every day of the year he would tell people about God’s love for us. He was kind and patient.

His patience is what I remember most about him. When I first arrived in Thailand, preparing to marry his son, he would spend time with me, trying to teach me to converse in Thai. One particular day, shortly after he came to stay with in Bangkok for a visit, my father-in-law was teaching me to say the word for “market”. (ตลาด). He would say it with the correct tone, and I would reply with a questioning tone. Patiently he repeated himself at least 30 times, until I caught on. From that day I realized how important it is to say Thai words not only with the correct consonants and vowels but with the correct tone. It is a tonal language, with 5 tones (low, rising, middle, high and falling) which often cause troubles with new learners.

There was the man in language school, in a nearby room who was trying to tell about his experience on the weekend riding horses. The teacher kept trying to get him to say “ride a horse” (ขี่ม้า — low/high), to which he responded with “dog poop” (ขี้หมา — falling/rising). Or the missionary in church who was telling us about a dear friend who was suffering from a fever, but what came out was the slang for a “hard-on”. Poor guy!

Mr. Skinny was diagnosed with cancer of the throat and mouth, or tongue…I’m not really sure which it was. But, long before I arrived on the scene, when he was in his 50’s he underwent (so the story goes) 13 hours of surgery to remove some of the cancer. The doctors feared that they were unsuccessful in removing it, so sent him home to die surrounded by family. Skinny prayed that God would heal him, and in response he would tell his world about God’s love. He lived another 20+ years until cancer returned in his prostate in 1982 and he died at the age of 74, still attesting to God’s love.

After that, my life changed somewhat, and that will be another story…..

Thin Places — St John the Divine in NYC

It was back in 2010. My husband, Michael had recently died following a valiant battle with a brain tumour. My youngest daughter was singing with a small choir and I was invited to travel with them as their collaborative pianist on their tour to New York City. My daughter was excited that I could spend that week with her, and hopefully start to move through my grief.

We were scheduled to sing for a Sunday service at St John the Divine in Harlem. On the Saturday at the rehearsal I was taken up into the organ loft, and assisted by their organist. I had played organ over the years, although had received very little training at that point. This pipe organ was massive, and the thought of trying to figure anything out in time for the brief rehearsal and morning service terrified me. The organist, Bruce, was wonderful; full of encouragement, and he generously offered to pull stops for me. He just assumed that I could anything, and knowing that he was there to help gave me reassurance.

Sunday morning I again climbed the stairs to the organ loft, which is located about 2 floors above the nave. I could see the conductor through a video screen placed near the music stand. Bruce played for most of the service, except for the two songs which the young women’s choir presented and which I accompanied. As a professional musician, I am well aware that a flawless performance is incredibly rare. I am always ultra-critical of my performances, knowing that there are mistakes that just happen for no reason except perhaps a brief loss of concentration, or thinking too much, or sometimes for no reason at all.

That Sunday morning was the first time in my life that I knew that there was someone with me, giving me the courage and confidence to complete a flawless performance. I could feel Michael there with me, cheering me on. He was always so proud of me, and I knew he was at that moment too. That day I felt within arms reach of the “thin places”. It is a day I will never forget.

Daily?

I just looked again at the sub-title of this blog site. “Daily reflections on life”. The word “daily” isn’t absolutely true, since I seem to find so many other things that get in the way of sitting down for 10 minutes every morning to write. Sometimes it is the rush of getting ready to head out to work, or the need to catch up on news and emails, or the hesitancy to even begin writing. Sometimes it is the fear of what is going to happen next that keeps my mind occupied and unable to write.

Yesterday I was notified that several of the students I work one-on-one with (in person) are currently isolating because of an exposure to Covid-19. This means that someone in their classroom is now ill with Covid-19. Since I was not notified directly by the health authorities, I am a distant enough contact but the fear is still there. It’s like a PigPen-type cloud covering that school every time I think about the children. Making that decision to stay away from the “healthy” children this week was a tough one. I don’t want to look like I live in fear, even though maybe I do. I also don’t want to see the students fall behind in their progress, although in the grand scheme of things, one missed lesson won’t damage them too much!

The next question is, how at risk do I feel? Can I still go shopping; can I still take Toffee to the groomers this morning? I suppose I can, unless I hear otherwise within the next 2 hours.

Another questions is, why can’t I put my faith in God that I will be okay? Or, if I just believe I’ll be fine and take precautions, am I being careless? That is actually a question I grapple with often. I look at those few churches that are now defying the health authorities by continuing to open their churches for large in-person gatherings, not wearing masks, and preaching defiance. They think they are trusting in God to save them; they also think god is very small and only “appears” in their building and can’t possibly change lives using digital services or meetings. I have seen nothing in the Bible that teaches us to be preach or practice stupidity….it must be a different Bible from the one they read.

Toffee woke me up early again today, and now that he has supervised my breakfast, he is fast asleep again. For him, nothing has changed, although he will be very happy to have me stay home this week.

Giant

From the “Blessed Shiver” prompt from the Isolation Journals, I am encouraged to write about one of my earliest memories in vivid detail.

There are a few memories from the age of three or four….decades before starting kindergarten! I was the middle child of four siblings: my older brother, and younger twins were the ones who were noticed. My older brother, because of his adeptness at demanding attention good and bad, and the twins because they were twins and cute and adorable. My recollection of that particular was a day when were we preparing to go for a walk. We lived at the time in Fort St. John, in northern BC. It was after the snow had melted in the spring. The sidewalk was dry, but the mud was thick and sticky beside the sidewalk.

Being the perfectly well-behaved child that I was (interpret that as scared silly to do anything that might bring on my mom’s anger) I dressed quickly in my warm clothing and went outside to wait, far away from the chaos of the others. I walked out in the cool, crisp mid-morning air, looking at my boots. My feet were always kept warm with the new boots which were most likely hand-me-downs from my brother. I knew I could only walk out to the sidewalk, then stop and wait for the others. As I approached the sidewalk I looked up and saw gigantic hairy legs. My own legs, frozen with fear, would not move an inch, but eyes kept looking up higher and higher until I could see the face of that hairy creature.

I’m not sure if my fear of large dogs started at that moment, or if I was so petrified because I was already afraid of large dogs and this was the size of an elephant. The St. Bernard also did not move an inch. Did it realize the fear in me? Was he hoping to help me through it? Or was he plotting to eat me up as my imagination ran wild. Fortunately my mom and siblings came out to rescue me and on we walked, and I was once again invisible.

Notes to self….

I joke often that I still feel like I’m 18 years old. At 18 I was very shy, although learning to talk to people one-on-one in normal conversation. Yet, in front of the classroom (I was a substitute band teacher back in the days when all you needed was the skills and not the papers) I was fearless. The students, often around my age or only a year or two younger, listened and followed my direction. I loved that year of using my gifts to make a difference in the lives of the students.

At 18 I had not found a boyfriend and been only on a few very awful dates. But I was young and free. My parents moved away and left me to look after the house. Fortunately, it took a year to sell so I had the house to myself for that year! I could buy the groceries I wanted; I could make some basic decisions on my own — what to eat, when to eat, who to spend time with. It was a happy time for me.

Here is my letter to my 18 year old self:

Dear Sandra,
Enjoy every minute of the freedom that you have found at 18. Keep riding your bike early in the mornings to listen to the birds chirping. Go canoeing in the lake as often as want. Be brave and talk to people — they will like you even if you aren’t as pretty as the other girls. Stop at the viewpoints on the way to your piano lessons, to watch the creek and listen to the wind in the trees. These days won’t last forever.

When you are a bit older you will make decisions that affect you and your family in ways not imagined. Your desire to be free, and on your own will lead you to move to other side of the globe. Don’t be afraid of that. It’s who you are.

And when you are even older you will discover courage and bravery not imaginable until it is required. Don’t ever give up…you are strong, and you will survive even the toughest battles.

remember to breathe

Last year, before the pandemic shut down our choir rehearsals, another choir director prepared special buttons for each of our singers. We had some leftover, which I happily kept. Children love to receive gifts, no matter how small, and these ones seemed quite special. The button that I kept reads “remember to breathe”. It is a reminder for me to breathe not only to sing, but to breathe when I am hit with troubles and with the need to make important decisions.

Throughout this past year I have reminded myself, my students, my choir kids and my own children to “just breathe”. Just breathe when you can’t get your hands to coordinate; breathe when you are too nervous to start playing; breathe when you need to sustain a long phrase; breathe when trying not to react badly to difficult people.

A few days ago I was hit with some horribly devastating news. It was about someone I had never met, but who is very close to a family member. And I just want to tell him to remember to breathe while he sits in jail waiting to talk to anyone who cares for him (and there are many). To remember to breathe when the police try to break you down. Breathe when you just need that strength to get through every minute of every hour waiting far too many days for the bail hearing.

I don’t know how this will play out…nobody knows at this point. When we are faced with so much uncertainty, sometimes remembering to breathe is about all we can do.

What? How?

The Isolation Journals prompt that I am using today is from poet Victoria Redel. She challenges us to write poem or prose using words with only one syllable. How much can I write in 10 minutes with that limitation? We’ll see:

This morn we woke up
stars and moon still high in the sky
my dog and I

I think of my son
thank God he is not sick
screw this pan dem ick

Each day is new
with all kinds of fears
and lots of tears

But, this day
this day my kids choir will sing
and our hearts will ring

Blessings

Eleven years ago my children decided that a puppy would help improve my life. My late husband’s best friend was probably the one who encouraged that thought, knowing that I was lonely and lost. When Toffee came into my life, he was 3 months old, and so very cute. I was told that I could send him back with no problems since there was a long list of people who wanted him.

He has been a real blessing to me, and I have learned a lot from watching him and raising him. For example, the rituals in life which I have so long rebelled against, are quite necessary for dogs. His morning consists of getting me out of bed as early as possible — preferably before 5:00 — quick check out in the back yard, gobble down breakfast in 10 seconds or less, beg for that inch of banana, go out again for big jobs, come back in to make sure I get my own breakfast. Once Toffee is successful in that full routine, he can relax and sleep.

The pandemic has been a challenge, of course, for all of us. One of the biggest changes in Toffee’s life is the loneliness. He used to get visited daily by several of my students. Now he only gets to hear their voices and see them on the screen.

I could write for days on blessings in my life. The stories about my children and now my grand-children; about my friends; about my adventures; my interesting and varied opportunities. That is one reason I started this blog. I want to write some of these things down, and I find that as I write, I realize that there are so many good things in my life. During the year of covid I often dwell on the negative and what I am missing and the fear and uncertainty. Each day when I spend 10 minutes writing, I am reminded of the blessings, the funny events, the good thoughts that I experience every day.

A year ago I became obsessed with Desiree Dawson’s song, “Just Fine”. I listened to it over and over, as a way to remind myself that things will be just fine. ….there is a part in me that knows that I’ll be just fine….