Reflections

Buried Boots

I signed up for a creative writing course. My choice of this course had little to do with the actual topic, but more to do with available time in my schedule and the fact that it was 100% online. We have had 3 sessions, with two remaining. The other students are so much more experienced than I, and came prepared with partially written short stories. They all have very imaginative topics, from mystery to science fiction, murder mysteries, horror, etc. I had to improvise when I was put on the spot, and thought of my most interesting ancestor — my great-grandfather. I can’t seem to come up with random stories that have nothing to do with people I know…

One big truth that has come out of this process is that writing is more than just coming up with a great idea, and having an amazing imagination, it’s about knowledge and effort. Lots of effort.

The assignment this week is to write a Dribble (exactly 50 words), Drabble (exactly 100 words) or a Postcard (250 words). Here is my Drabble “Buried Boots”:

What amount of gold is worth isolation, illness and death?

Campfire smoke, memories of home, remorse over his massive mistakes choking him with every breath.

Angus learned of more deaths among the prospectors. Typhoid. Accidents. Death at the hands of greedy stampeders.

Tomorrow he will head home, without his fortune. All that remained was a tiny collection of nuggets hidden inside his boots—just enough to take home as souvenirs.

The heavy weight of guilt from a lifetime of blunders slid away, just as the escarpment thundered toward the campsite.

Perhaps his boots will make it home to his family.

Mourning rituals

Today marks one year since my father passed away. It has been a tough year in many ways, but also a good growing experience.

I started thinking about the mourning rituals I observed and participated in while living in Thailand. When my father-in-law passed away we held several days of evening services and meals for the community — family and neighbours and friends. Each night there was singing, praying and preaching followed by delicious food, prepared and serviced lovingly by his children, grandchildren and other relatives. The final day of celebrating his life, all the attendees drove to the cemetery in a long caravan of vehicles. There was some prestige in having a long caravan.

Following that, we (his children and their spouses) wore black for 3 months. Some people mourned their loved ones by wearing black for 3 days, 3 weeks, a year. That defined period allowed the bereaved to step back from normal activities and spend some time in their grief, without having to explain. What I found helpful was the “permission” to end that period of grief. At the end of those 3 months we could get on with living and enjoying life, without any feeling of guilt that we hadn’t been sufficiently sad and despondent, and that we had paid the tribute that was expected by the culture.

This morning I had a talk with myself, and have decided that one year is a good time to get back to living without regret. I will always miss my dad. Each day I still have fleeting thoughts that I should phone him and share some news with him, before remembering that he is gone. The things he taught me by example and words will be with me forever. And one of his clearest examples was that the best way to move on from grief is to literally move on and discover new opportunities.

Live like you were dying

Music is seldom just on in the background in my house. I don’t use it to fill the quiet. When I listen to music, I am really listening and studying it — either to prepare for a performance, listening for interesting chord progressions and harmonies, to find new songs for my choir or looking for ways to improve my own music-making. And sometimes to improve how I approach life.

This morning the lyrics of Tim McGraw’s song “Live like you were dying” jumped out at me. I know I have heard it before, most likely while driving across the country with my daughter this past summer. She loves country music. It’s not my first choice, but I am growing to appreciate it more. The lyrics are often quite powerful.

“I went sky-diving”…definitely not my choice in things to pursue when hit with the reality that our end date, or even best-before date might be closer than hoped.

“And I loved deeper
And I spoke sweeter
And I gave forgiveness I’d been denying”…all very good things to ponder.

“Someday I hope you get the chance
To live like you were dying
Like tomorrow was a gift
And you’ve got eternity
To think about
What you’d do with it
What could you do with it
What did I do with it?
What would I do with it?”

Those were the words that really hit me. What am I doing with the days that I have? Would I be happy looking back at all the time that is wasted or spent being angry and resentful?

But, even more important, what are my equivalent-to-sky-diving activities? What would I choose to spend my time doing if I actually acknowledged the simple fact that even I will have an end date?

Kites to boats

The children’s choir is learning a song about the moon kite from Malaysia. I had prepared an outline of the moon kite and encouraged the children to colour it, and perhaps search for examples on Google for colourful ideas. Last week one of my 7 year old singers brought me this lovely origami boat. He said that he was searching for moon kites and found a video on how to make origami boats.

At first I puzzled as to how a search for a moon kite would end up with this young singer folding an origami boat for me, but then I thought about my searches. How often do I open up my computer to find information on a topic, and end up discovering something totally different?

Knowing this child, I am sure he studied each new discovery carefully before venturing on to the next. Perhaps this week he will go back to the original search and find an example of a moon kite. Or maybe he will go down another totally different path.

Are my searches, and journeys in life, more like meandering through a labyrinth, or like going down the rabbit hole?

Breakwater chat

Normally I start walking, and just follow my feet, or take the direction with the fewest number of people, but today I had a strong desire to revisit the breakwater. Toffee used to take me there frequently on our walks. He loved to go in the direction of the ocean, and I usually followed his lead. I haven’t to the breakwater since before Toffee died.

It was early so there weren’t people out walking yet. I came upon a gentleman who was walking slowly and steadily using his walker. We exchanged a few pleasant comments about the weather, then I wished him a good day and kept walking to the lighthouse at the far end of the breakwater.

On my way back I stopped to chat further with this man. He told me that he walked on the breakwater every morning, just as he and his wife had done for decades. She passed away 6 months ago. “We had a very good life together,” he said with a smile. We talked about summers that they spent in Kaslo, near the town where I grew up. As we said good-bye, he stated that “life is good. There are always new adventures, new things to experience.”

Hands of Time

Thanksgiving morning I decided to go for a long walk. I had no meetings or work scheduled, so the only thing limiting my time was my bladder. I followed my feet, and ended up walking along the shoreline on the far side of the harbour.

Abby was irresistibly cute. She was trying so hard to be an obedient Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, but friendly excitement and obedience are often polar opposites! We became quick friends, and her owner was eager to engage in conversation. She told me about the sun lighting up a huge sculpture further west. I told her about my recent discovery about the “Golden hour”. She asked me if I had seen “The Hands of Time” sculpture. I said that I had never heard of it. Although this lady knew there must be other sculptures, the hands carving the canoe paddle was the only one that she had seen.

We back-tracked several meters and climbed some rocks and saw this amazing sculpture. Of course I had to do some research, and discovered that in 2012, an artist was commissioned to create artwork as a way to celebrate the 150 year anniversary of the city.

The Hands of Time consists of 12 bronze sculptures that depict life-size hands, varying in age, culture and gender, but engaged in activities symbolic of Victoria’s past. They were installed in the spring of 2013.
(James Bay Beacon, 2016)

This week I have been on a mission to find all 12 sculptures. In what has turned out to be a bit of scavenger hunt, I have given myself motivation to get out walking every day. So far I have discovered 10, and intend to find the other two in the days or weeks ahead.

What was really very special about that day was finding joy in sharing and learning from a complete stranger.

Lurking

It was a simple question, but I was unable to answer. It took all my strength to compose myself and still there was no way I could bring myself to voice his name.

I have worked to erase him from my memory for years. Thanksgiving weekend, 21 years ago we were able to escape and venture out on our own, to live in a cute little 100 year old home. My children and I celebrated that Thanksgiving with sincere thanks, enjoying peace and quiet, feasting in safety on a Rotisserie chicken from Safeway.

He tore my life apart, preying on me and my children when we were most vulnerable. There are parts of us that none of us will ever be able to get back, and trust and innocence that is gone forever.

Many months after we moved out my girls quietly went through all our old photos, tearing his head out of each one of them. Sometime after they finished tossing his images, I threw all the photos out. I wish it could be that simple. I wish the memories and horrors could be thrown out like trash.

We moved away from that town, started a new life, made friends, and each day I hoped that by ignoring my feelings and getting super busy with life and work, that the memories and feelings would go away.

Well, that didn’t work. When I’m least prepared, and also when I am as prepared as I can be to block them, something triggers those awful memories. They seem to be lurking deep down inside just waiting for an unguarded moment.

My Story

The quote below says a lot. (I was surprised to find that the credit for this quote goes to Harley Davidson, but after some research I have found that many positive, encouraging quotes and sayings are credited to the Harley Davidson company.)

Did you ever watch the movie, “The Runaway Bride”? Maggie (Julia Roberts) reveals that her choice of breakfast eggs changes with each relationship. She doesn’t even know what she prefers, but always answers according to the taste of her current lover.

I began paying attention to that concept in some of my previous relationships, realizing that it is important to stay true to myself. The quickest way to get me to end a relationship is to start telling me what I want, what I need to change! So, right now I’m single, and figuring out the next chapters in my story….holding my own pen.

“When writing the story of your life, don’t let anyone else hold the pen.”
Harley Davidson quote

Waiting for life to begin

On my way home the other day, I asked myself, “Why are you still waiting for life to begin?” I had no answer.

Tidy piles of notepads, greeting cards, sketch pads and boxes of pens and pencils are stored in many cupboards and on shelves around the house. Blank sheets of manuscript paper are waiting for me to transcribe those melodies and songs that keep churning around in my head. They are waiting for the day when my life is in order, and I can start doing what I imagined I would be doing as an adult. Instead, one urgent project after another fills every minute of my days.

This is the year I am working on semi-retiring, whatever that means. So far it has involved a major shift from working 12 hour days to actual work only 2-5 hours a day, but still no time to really start living.

I can blame the pandemic, and my hesitancy to get out and face crowds of people, but someday I’ll have to admit that what started out as a 2-week or 2-month inconvenience has grown into 2 1/2 years of uncertainty, and it is not just going to magically go away.

How much longer will I be waiting for my real life to begin?

Labyrinth

This labyrinth was designed and planted in 2013 when I worked at this church. The lovely hibiscus, Rose of Sharon, in the centre behind the labyrinth was moved from the front entrance and is now thriving. Even though the place is now quite secluded and quiet, when I still lived there it was wide open and visible from the street. For that reason, I never walked it.

“A structure with many connected paths or passages in which it is hard to find your way” is one definition. But now labyrinths like this in the photo are created for meditation and a way for spiritual renewal, rather than traps for catching monsters and evil spirits as in the ancient days.

There is a labyrinth near where I live now. I have not walked it, nor even really looked at it closely. The thought of trying to do something for spiritual renewal while random strangers watch is not appealing to me.

But more than that, simply quieting my mind for more than a few seconds is not easy.

Several years ago I played for many Taize services at a church. For one hour a few people gathered, listened to a short reading, sang chant-like choruses over and over, and spent time in silence. It was part of my job — if it wasn’t I probably would not have continued to attend.

…my stomach is growling…can they hear it?….that’s so embarrassing…does he just breathe heavily, or is he asleep…how many more minutes?…should I start playing again?…no, it’s not time…what should I get for dinner?…yes, I’m so hungry, my stomach is getting louder…

My father attended the Taize service once. He told me that it was a very strange hour, and not something he would try again. Although he was a very quiet man, sitting still and not feeling that he had accomplished anything felt like wasted time. For someone raised to always be doing something, I agreed with him. At least I did 9 years ago.

Maybe it’s time to try again to quiet my mind.