Variations on the 'last tack'

Sailing has sparked a fresh start in so many ways for this gal, who is standing up and cheering because her ship has come in. 

I am happily involved as a budding member in the Rendezvous Yacht Club and learning as much about life and myself as I am about the master art of sailing.

I have spent many years reading books and studying philosophies that revolve around the “power of now” and other modalities that harness my thinking into the moment at hand and away from the yesterdays and tomorrows and unknowns.

Learning to sail on Rainy Lake these past few weeks has done more for my focus on the present than all the books I’ve ever read or ever will.

Wind can shape the land, shift the desert, move fires across forests and drive you crazy when you are having a good hair day.Wind is both my teammate and my opponent and is becoming a most intriguing source of study for me in watching the waves on the water.

When I am out there on the lake and playing my small part in the warrior bid to sail I find myself thinking back to the tall ships that brought our ancestors here to Canada from overseas and oh, the long and arduous journey it must have been to harness the wind across the expanse of an ocean.

Our people must have jumped up and down to see land and the final leg of the voyage.

I am smitten by the freedom from worry that sailing brings to my heart and soul and while the big ship adventures of the past intrigue me, I have yet to empathize with any joy those yesteryear passengers might have had in getting off the boat.

When I’m out there sailing, not one cell in my body wants to go home.

My captain understands this. I suspect all sailing captains understand this.

My captain and I have often talked about the “last tack” that must occur before heading to shore and how he often wants to put off coming about on that last tack as long as he can because he knows the world will slowly creep back in on him once he steps off the boat.

Aye.

The reality is of course that we all have to get off the boat and back to our worlds and each time I step off onto the dock I try to do it with intention and not regret.

So far I am infused with such a sense of well being when my foot hits the dock I really can’t imagine not welcoming whatever is waiting for me.

Of course, I can say that now.

Recently in my neck of the woods my intuition waved a red flag of caution in the seconds before I opened the porch door and my fear of the unknown was the reality I found in the porch. 

What was that I wrote last week about dogs?

“We (and me included) in our fear of the unknown could take a life lesson from a dog.”

“Note to Self” and “Dog Lesson #2”: Do not leave an anxious dog in the porch during a raging thunder and lightening storm when you are away from home.

The doorframe into the house was in shreds and the metal threshold and flooring were torn off at the landing into the kitchen.

One dog looked guilty while the other one just sat there shifting his gaze back and forth, refusing to make eye contact with me.

I’ve often thought “Cash was lacking a few brain cells but that day he was smart enough not to look at me and the “Medusa” snakes emerging out of my hair when I saw all the damage his cohort had done trying to get herself in the house and away from the storm.

Right then I wanted to eat my copy of the book “Peace is Every Breath” by Thich Nhat Hanh in the hopes that it would calm me down.

Thanks to my good Dad and the inventor of wood filler, I think the door will recover.

I also think “Dot” is scarred for life in a storm but if I ever need to get rescued out of a cave blocked by boulders, I’m sure that dog would qualify as the “jaws of life.” I am amazed she still has teeth.

And life goes on. Here’s to another last tack and on to new horizons.

My youngest offspring, whom I often forget is only on the cutting edge of 22, is off to greater adventures in southern Ontario prior to University start-up next month.

She is the epitome of a city-driven soul and the small town life—no matter how fantastic it is for the rest of us—has never been in her blood.

Sail on Heather!

Followers make good teachers

Sometimes I think I’m “all that” and I am!

And then I do idiocy and dig my bicycle out of a two-year storage, plunk on a helmet made for a bigger brain and pedal like the dickens (because I was going to be late) the 8.5 km to work.

About two kilometers into the stupidity was when I rolled my eyes to the wind and said out loud in my self-deprecating voice things that I shall not repeat in public. My saddle bones were smoldering from bike seat friction, my lungs were on fire, and I’d lost feeling in my right hand from gripping the hand bar too tight.

I may be over zealous sometimes but I am not a quitter.

About four km into the madness, as I brewed up a new language of expletives, I became aware of an unknown creature running behind me on the country road and spewing loud, guttural huffing noises.

A large black bear with sharp teeth loped its way into my imagination and I knew if I turned around I would realize my worst fear—I was about to be his breakfast.

Many times I have been in my car on this same road minding my own business when a hairy, matted beast such as this has tromped out of the bush to stop and stare menacingly at me as I drove by.

On that morning as I listened to the hungry panting carnivore close in on my apple bottom, I didn’t think I had any energy left to escape.

Never underestimate yourself.

Without looking back I tore off like “Whinny the Race Horse” at the stretch to the finish line and a bag of oats.

Before I knew it the huffing sound faded and I was far enough ahead to risk looking back. I had my middle finger sign at the ready and was churning up a few choice words as I turned to look over my right shoulder at the loser.

The black thing and its long tongue flapping madly from side to side still was running at full speed towards me.

It was my dog, “Cash.”

Never in his life had he left the yard by himself except to take a pee in the field next to the house. This 4 km journey was for him a blind race on faith to stay close to me. 

When I’m at home working in the yard, Cash follows me everywhere I go. He braves meat-eating gnats and the summer heat to stay near me. When I am inside the house, he will lay as close to me as the dog rules allow. Even when I’m in the “loo,” he will move from his spot in another room I’ve been in and into the hallway outside the bathroom.

My initial reaction was anger at the dog for following me on the road and yet, why should I have been surprised to see him desperately racing to my bike and me that day.

Dogs come into our lives with joy unbounded and teach us the meaning of true devotion. They rest themselves against our souls and make us a part of theirs.

And if someone out there believes a dog has no soul, it is my firm belief they’ve never really loved a dog.

I caught myself in sudden shame after one or two angry shouts to my dog that day because I realized Cash was only doing what was in his heart and the dog rules did not apply to his reasoning about staying close to me.

We (and me included) in our fear of the unknown could take a life lesson from a dog.

“If what you want lies buried, dig until you find it.”

The view of the captain and crew

In general terms I do not like ants. They show up inside the house where they are not welcome and on occasion there is the one ant that is so much bigger than I expect and it freaks me out.

But on the other hand ants also fascinate me and I have great respect for their fortitude in the world.

Their load restrictions bar none, they have incredible focus, and despite formidable and recurring odds ants don’t dally. They strive to rebuild a world they want to live in. They don’t lie at anchor or drift in life when things get messed up.

They are captains of their own ships.

There comes a time in our lives when we have difficult decisions to make in order to get where we really want to go. The winds of change affect us all. How we make it through these often-stormy times depends on the set of our sails.

My very favorite author Mark Nepo wrote;

“Discovering who we are is like breaking a trail up the side of a mountain. Yet the deepest friendships begin when we look into the eye of another and discover that they have been there too.

We carry whole worlds within us as we brush by each other in the supermarket to read mayonnaise jars. The entire drama of life churns in our blood as we rush underground to catch a train. We are always both so known and unknown.”

If a few months ago someone had predicted that come summer, besides having a very happy heart, I would be learning how to sail and be in a sailboat race at the same time, I would have said they needed new batteries for their crystal ball.

But who am I to roll my eyes at what’s in store for me. My beliefs in the Universal Plan are well known. It swallowed me whole in January and then challenged me to carve a new path to the peak—and carried me some—to reemerge stronger and into a beautiful open sky.

I discovered once again that taking chances is worth it and I also learned a little more about what it really means to live in the moment when I took part Saturday in the Rendezvous Yacht Club’s “Mermaid Rock Regatta” as a very green thumb crew member of the “Morning Dove.”

I had the time of my life navigating and watching the sails tighten close to the wind as I learned to coexist with Mother Nature.

And I have a whole new respect for the wind (or lack thereof) and the sailors who venture out in “egg-fry on sidewalk” heat to sweat navigate an often dead calm courses purely for the love of the game.

The lessons I learned were many and most of them could be applied to life as much as they relate to the art of carving out a workable sailing path with the lake wind. 

Little did my Captain know that his shipmate teetered on making an appearance that morning at the docks as she paced back and forth in front of the mirror making petty excuses on why she should stay home.

I kept trying to start my inner trolling motor. I’d get it going a little bit and get on track and then it would quit and I was paddling and paddling and having trouble getting to Point B.

It was all about anxiety and my comfort zone and it sickened me. I realized that my comfort zone where everything was predictable and I was always safe at home meant that if I didn’t take chances I would have no beginning, no middle, and no end to the story of how I came back to life.

Tony Robbins is right. “If you change nothing, nothing changes.”

And as I was sitting on the boat that day fully present in my happiness, I looked over and my Captain was looking at me and was grinning too.

I wanted to stand up and recite to the seagulls from the poem “Invictus.”

“I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul!”  

Mark Twain penned, “20 years from now you will be disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the one’s you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Someone very special to me has Twain's mantra on the wall in his office and by all accounts it holds some of the best advice I’ve yet heard.

Sail on.

Homeland security division on high alert here

Short, sweet, and to the point.

That’s my goal as I write this at 4:30 a.m. on a Tuesday—paddling madly against the tide in the procrastination bay of time frames for my column.

I’m not sure where the last week went. I lost track of it at “Hello” and then was whisked away by the infinite chores in my neck of the woods.

I often think that even 24 hours of sunshine wouldn’t be enough time for me to get done all the things on my list.However there one “to-do” I don’t have to worry about around here and that’s homeland security.

I have my own four-legged officers and they run a very tight border operation. Who needs a high tech system installed when there’s two skunk-bomb sniffing, wild animal chasing, squirrel and chipmunk patrol canine units whose only fee is a daily dish of dry kibble and the occasional scratch behind the ear.

I am one lucky lady. My world is protected by the dog equivalent of the Paladins of Charlemagne’s court in ancient Rome.

Even at 2:30 a.m., in otherwise quiet times in the country, I can be raised from the dead of sleep by the warrior dog whose sniffer works overtime under the open kitchen window where he lays on his blanket in the house.

Whatever it is outside that walks in noiseless wild animal shoes triggering “Cash” to jump out of his dream world and into a barking frenzy, must be scared to death. Heaven knows the ceiling in my bedroom has more than one set of fingernail marks where I’ve clung like a petrified “Sylvester the cat” in a Bugs Bunny cartoon when my homeland security system went off while I was asleep.

Every once in a while I think I would like to own chickens and let them “free range” the farmyard, until I see what happens when a pigeon makes one wrong move by landing on the ground here. My chickens would never have a moment’s peace with “Dot” on shift.

Even a snake’s skin shed by its owner has no chance of deteriorating in the summer sun as nature had intended. If Dot sniffs one out, she snaps it up and whips it around in her jaws until it’s in tatters and poses no threat to the safety of international peace.

“Mr. Groundhog” didn’t know what hit him the other day either when Dot spotted him sitting on the woodpile cleaning his buckteeth.

I happened on the scene while walking to the barn on a mission and caught a glimpse of the little rodent’s wide-eyed surprise as Dot, in her Usain Bolt impression, sprinted across the farm yard in world record time and in a flying leap cleared the wood pile and disappeared behind it taking the groundhog with her. 

Within seconds she bolted back over the woodpile with the mortified groundhog in her fangs. I expect it was experiencing what it felt like for me at the Emo Fair one year when I was thrown about on the “Tilt-a’ Whirl” ride.

The only difference is that I survived the ordeal. In a scene from the movie “The Quick and the Dead” suddenly I had a groundhog carcass to dispose of.

If Dot had had her way, she would have guarded her rodent prize until she was old and grey, and there wasn’t much I could do to distract her from standing over victory other than lock her in the house while I disposed of the critter.

However, as I soon found out, chucking the woodchuck into the bountiful grassland marsh that layers my property here certainly was not the answer.

Two days later while hoeing the garden I looked up to see Dot hovering over the puffy groundhog cadaver in the middle of the yard after she had been on a search and retrieve mission. 

Burying it in the field with a shovel six feet under wearing a “hazmat” suit was my only recourse to preserve the standards of homeland security set by the canine soldier that Dot is.

Often while on a scouting operation to the edges of the farm border, Dot will return black as night with dirt and I know some encroaching gnawing mammal has likely met its maker before it had a chance to set up camp.

Short, sweet, and to the point. 

Listen a little harder to their stories

In his book “Illusions,” Richard Bach penned, “You teach best what you most need to learn.”

I write about a lot of life’s little quirks, home runs, jagged points, and ocean waves. I’m not sure I do this to teach anybody anything.

In fact I write to help heal my life and learn from my somewhat windy journey. However my readers often tell me that what I write about helps them, too. I appreciate their feedback very much.

Today I miss my grandparents, Joe and Florence, who died in 1996 and 2006 respectively.

They made me a very rich woman, though not in the “bullion” sense. And though it be true that I live on the farm where they once did and I am land rich in a smaller sense of the word “acreage,” this also is not the prosperity I now attend to.

I’m talking about the “helping Grandpa in the barn” rich, the “lunch at Grandma’s on Fridays” rich, the “listening to them talk about the past” rich, and “all the lessons about life they taught me,” rich.

I once asked Grandma what she thought the most important life lesson was that she could offer me. She said, “Tell the truth.”

I live by that rule as best I can.

My grandfather taught me not to refer to anyone as “she” or “he,” but to use their proper name. I still am learning to do that.

There are days, though far less frequent than when I first moved to this house, when I come home from town and walk in the door and the smell of  “Juicy Fruit” gum tickles my nostrils and I swear my grandmother’s spirit has been here, checking in to see how things are going.

I always hope she likes what she sees and that the old place still feels like home.

I shake my head at how much time has passed—and seemingly quickly. So much has happened in my life since 2006 and sometimes I feel like I have just begun to live again—and of course once again, I have.

Funny enough I still find myself on a graduating path to change my surroundings to reflect me.

I stepped into a fresh goal path to that end recently, fueled I suppose by the newly shingled roof on this aged farmhouse. Strangely the old white siding, peeling in the sun, was tempered a bit after a 40-year-old scabby roof was made anew. 

So I started to think about changing up color and space and found myself in discovery of cabinet drawers and old trunks that still contained some of the “old world” charms of yesterday. Interesting how that is still possible after six years.

As I was perusing the charisma that spoke to my grandfather’s DNA of keeping everything, such as vintage Massey Ferguson tractor parts boxes stuffed with the old broken piece he’d replaced, I suddenly longed to ask him more about his life as a boy and as a farmer.

I wanted so much to again listen to him talk about the old days of logging the bush with horses and building fires to keep warm on cold winter days. I wanted to ask him all about the barn and what he thought I could do to save it from the winds of time.

I found a rolled up felt pouch lined with countless knitting needles laid carefully by size for the next time my grandmother would have been looking for the one to complete her latest knitting project.

And then there was the sewing kit—a beautiful small wicker box layered on the bottom with buttons, oh the buttons, and filled with old thimbles and darning needles laced with bits of thread from the last repair.

I touched everything in that box and my longing to ask my grandmother about the women who taught her how to quilt and sew, flowed out of my heart. And I wanted to listen again and again to her tell me about how this old house was moved here on a trailer bed in the 1940s.

I wanted to ask both of my grandparents about everything they could remember about their lives, so that I could write down the things I had missed and thus not have so many answered questions.

In his song “Smile As He Goes Home,” Kim Churchill—a most amazing singer/songwriter from Australia who performed at Cornell Farms in mid-June—sang about the importance of the older generation and the value of their legacies and to connect with them before it’s too late.

I did do that with my grandparents and I have much to be thankful for in what they taught me about their lives and how my own has unfolded in their light.

I still wish I had listened a little harder to their stories. Don’t miss your opportunity to do that with the people you love.

Act the way you want to feel

Monday, June 25, 2012

I have a photograph of my late grandmother Florence Drennan on the wall facing where I sit and write. The photo was taken in 1929. Grandma is 14 years old and one of eight young girls in wool cloche-style hats trying to be still for the photographer. Some of them are laughing. My Grandmother has an ear-to-ear closed mouth grin and looks ready to bust a gut at something funny that must have been circulating among them that day so long ago.

I found the photograph among my Grandmother’s things after she died at the age of 91 in 2006. It’s my all-time favorite photo.

It resonates a “carpe diem” lesson for me. The fresh young faces whisper to me the message about not wasting time waiting around for the right moment to do something that makes me happy.  I am reminded to live out loud and that I deserve to be happy.

I think we all deserve to be happy.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about happiness, having recently been introduced to someone who among other attributes just finished reading “The Happiness Project.”

On Page 23 there is a Buddhist quote, “When the student is ready, the teacher appears.”

I’ve had the same book sitting yet unread on my bookshelf since I bought it shortly after it was published in 2009. I started reading it yesterday.

A counselor I saw in late January while I was on the bleeding edge of a personal tragedy told me outright that I deserved to be happy. At that moment when all was dark and cheerless I really didn’t appreciate the happiness warrant for my life but I soon discovered that he was right and that he was talking about the attitude I take to my life table of contents.

“No deposit, no return.”

I believe in and I love myself. I think I’ve done a very good job of coming back to a full albeit new life, while honoring the one I had to leave behind on that brutally cold winter’s day. I’ve worked very, very hard to do that because I believe I deserve to be happy.

Some people have said to me, “That was fast.”  I try not to let the comment hurt my heart because I know the archaic reaction is usually based on the old and rusty rule of socially acceptable time frames born in another century. But it hurts anyway.

None of us really has any business making a comment like that to someone who has been through the grief grinder. This much I know is true.

It’s very easy to sit in yesterday. There’s no challenge in doing that. The tape reel is recorded and burned and doesn’t mind replaying for us as many times as we would like to sit in on it.

And for all my self-care work there are still times when the past would have me sucked into its movie where I am welcome to mope until everyone else thinks it’s time for me to move forward and direct my own play.

Moving forward through the intersections of life is risky. Look both ways and go.

It is my belief that grief, no matter the source, is not meant to be overcome. I don’t think we are supposed to conquer grief, but—to paraphrase the poet Rumi, to treat it honorably because someday somewhere somehow it may be clearing you out for new delight.

The balance is tedious, constant work. Sometimes I do it well, sometimes I do appallingly, but I will never stop striving for everyday happiness again.

Life is windy and as my new friend reminded me, “You can’t change the wind, but you can adjust your sails.” Thank you.

I may be a child of the wind to my dying day, but I’ve got a big sailboat and her name is “Bring It On.”

The bond around here sticks like glue

Monday, June 18, 2012

The news has probably been out there for a long time but I just found that our ear lobes never stop growing.

That’s just great—there goes one more part of my body headed south without my consent.

Perhaps I could postpone the imminent downward droop with duct tape. Goodness knows the super adhesive is my back-up plan for putting other things in their place.

I’ve used duct tape to hold my pinky toe against its digit neighbor so it didn’t hurt so bad after I broke the little buddy kicking a big rock that I couldn’t pick up.

I’ve also used it to tape extra car keys to the underside of my car, although know that I’ve made that a public announcement I’ll be forced to find another locations for said keys.

I’ve also used duct tape as a substitute for a hair removal system on my upper lip.  I only did that once.

I seem to recall that my ex-husband, Peter, used duct tape to wrap my Christmas present. After the flat-stare look on my face, he only did that once as well. 

 

As an entertainment technique I’ve used it to cement my five-year old grandson to the kitchen floor. It was his idea, although I’m sure he got the inspiration from his Granny, who is well-known in her neck of the woods for her (albeit empty threat) cautioning thrown to her mischievous little peppers, that ignoring the house rules will result in being duct-taped to the wall.

My grandson had a rip-roaring time in his attempts to extract himself from the vinyl flooring and in the end required the assistance of his “taper” to wiggle free.

Oddly enough the experience did not deter him from challenging the house rules five minutes after he was re-mobilized.

And all I heard after that was “Can we do that again, Granny?”  In my mind’s futuristic eye I pictured my grandson standing at the front of the class during “Show and Tell” at school as the teacher asked him to share what he’d done over the weekend and him blurting out in pinching detail that his grandmother had duct-taped him to the floor. The teacher would make one call and I’d have a child advocate counselor on my doorstep.

And while I did not follow through, I will admit that I desperately fought the compulsion to duct tape my daughter’s 18-month old golden Labrador to the side of the barn after it ran like a wild racehorse through my yard headed for my garden, during a recent dog-sitting weekender.

My own canine capers, which stood motionless on all fours with their jaws dropped open and struck stupid by the visiting terror, I think would have helped me secure their nemesis after she bowled them both over during a flying leap over my picnic table.

Using my Alpha voice I threatened to duct tape the dog if she didn’t settle down, but my Hurricane Tribe must have tipped her off about my meaningless uttering.

However I did put Mya on the end of a leash and tried to walk the excitement out of her. The result was my upper torso thinking it had just been “dragged down the street by two Great Danes.” I came home dragging my knuckles on the gravel road and duct taped my popped-out shoulder joints back into their sockets.

Currently, as I sit here thinking about how to end this column I realize I am pulling on my ear lobe.

What are some of the best duct tape decisions you ever made? Sometimes you know right away when you do that. Sometimes it takes a bit of looking back over your shoulder to see that you did.

In this moment I cannot lay claim to the latter.

I looked back over my shoulder to see if I’d left the roll of adhesive on my dresser and a big wad of my nice long hair got stuck to a wide upended piece of duct tape that was sticking up from where I’d wrapped my shoulder joint.

Help.

Sometimes I do know what I'm talking about

Monday, June 11, 2012

I don’t imagine a lot of 16 year olds read my column. If my own daughters were still in that age group I know for sure this writing space would be the last place they would cast their eyes, because they’d be sure to find their haphazard and often dramatic ways cloaked in feeble anonymity and spread like alphabet butter in a 600-word essay.

Today my young women are spread across the 20-something years and they have learned—since I began writing “The View From Here” in 2004—to tolerate their mother’s often public musings on their messy bedrooms, unwashed dishes, and piles of dirty laundry et al.

Still, they may roll their eyes. I have loved and raised them as best I could. We’ve had many ups and downs. I’m still learning how it all clicks and so are they.

But I was reminded recently just how tenuous the parent/child mosaic remains out there.

 

Even when parents do the very best they can, 16-year-olds can pack up and leave home under the belief that something better exists outside the four strong walls of love and opportunity they’ve grown up in.

Memories of yesterday flooded back to me, poked at old wounds, cast old shadows of soul drought and of desperate times of the heart.

12 years ago one of my own children left home just short of her 16^th birthday and although I tried to move heaven and earth in as many directions as I could to keep her at home, the winds of her change eventually trumped me.

Most of the time I knew where she was, but sometimes I didn’t and the stress of all of it rotted my stomach. Thank Heaven for a rib cage or my heart would have leapt from my chest in those distressing times.

There was a part of my psyche that wanted to hire Special Forces to kidnap my daughter and plunk her premature would-be independence on a remote island made out of duct tape.

I ended up in counseling and I learned a hard, hard lesson in what degrees of control I had.

My daughter didn’t return to live at home after the age of 16. It broke my heart. I missed out, and so did she, on some good “at home” years and she knows it.

 

My daughter took the bumpy road and it was difficult. She wouldn’t dispute that.

She stopped going to school and because of that choice alone, and the fact that she did not hold herself responsible; the education crust in the pie of life was unfinished. 

If you asked my daughter today she would of course agree that her hindsight is 20/20 on many levels during those tender years. 

I have never stopped believing in her despite some “tough love” choices I chose to make and I am infinitely proud of the wiser woman she is today.

That said, I would still go back in time and try to change her mind the day she packed her things, because from a mother’s point of view it wasn’t the right choice.

But as Leslie Poles Hartley penned, “The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.”

In spite of what I cannot change, today I am restless to run screaming down the street with a red flag and magic wand.

I wish 16-year-olds who leave good homes would read this and believe me when I say what a grave lapse in judgment it is.

I wish I could change a young mind just like that. If only it were that easy.

Do the hardest, most unthinkable and most mature thing of all and go home with your suitcase and hug your mother and hug your father and spill your heart, tell the truth, face consequence and accept compromise.

Home is where the heart of your young life is. This much I know is true.

June kickstarts with color

Monday, June 4, 2012

I love the month of June. In fact, aside from my birthday month of October I think June takes the cake. 

I say that now, while my lawn is still two days off another cut. Usually by the time I’m done mowing it and because I have a big yard and there’s only one of me, I’m not quite so thrilled on the bursting green rapid growth that happens in month six.

But today I like it.

I am most in awe of the new green needle tips on all the many branches of the massive evergreen trees that line my driveway. I am at a loss for how something so incredibly huge manages to draw in enough energy each year to produce new green at every finger of its limbs.

It is perhaps the most promising sign there is for me, that life is driven to carry on despite the challenges of getting from A to B. 

Another “awe awe” moment was watching a C-130 Hercules with 20,000 pounds of fuel clear the runway in a heartbeat at the Fort Frances Airport on Sunday afternoon at the end of a very successful annual Fly-In event.

I felt like a 10-year old standing there as the reverberation of the four-engine megalith vibrated in my chest when it raced by all of us lifting off in a roar, banking sharply around for a low pass over a crowd of thrilled onlookers.

After its second such roundabout pass I shot a fist into the air like a trooper, turned around with a little jig to see my dad standing there with a grin as big as mine. We looked straight at each other and without words we knew exactly how each other felt in that exhilarating moment.

Hats off to members of the Canadian Air Force Squadron 435 for a job well done.

“June Bugs” are out too—ages one through six—and they love to play with the garden hose that “Yours Truly” rigged up from a pump at the creek for my weary skeleton who didn’t want to haul pails to the repeated watering needed for my herb and flower gardens.

Quite simply, the simplest form of entertainment for children on a hot summer day is a garden hose. Second is a whack of sidewalk chalk to brighten Granny’s patio stones and cement steps to the colors of the rainbow. 

However I forgot to ask my little peppers to remove their shoes before coming inside, and in so not doing had a pink, blue, green, and yellow chalk trail through the porch to the kitchen and into the bathroom, where small feet had trickled as the day wore on.

Most entertaining scene of all was when “Ozzie” the cat, in his usual display of how pleased he is with life, ventured outside and laid down on the patio stones and rolled around in kitty-like fashion.

I’m still kicking myself for not taking a photograph of the cat and his amazing technicolor dream coat derived from all those lovely chalk drawings.

 

Seeing him lit up like that reminded me of my slightly askew high school days and my own version of said coat.

Mine looked like a shag rug made into a vest and indeed was a colorful array of long wool fibers. It was a one of a kind accessory and I’m not even sure where I got it.

All I remember is that it was right up there with plucking my eyebrows too thin. The response from my classmates was not very favorable. 

But Ozzie looked impeccable in his and still believed that he was king of the hill even though he looked like a wad of cotton candy from the Emo Fair.

June also has reintroduced me to Rainy Lake and just how spectacular it is at sunset while floating in a boat in Sand Bay.

Thank You to the two good hearts who scooped me up and delivered me to the moment of power that I’d been talking so much about. Now.

Memories worth their weight in stone

Monday, May 28, 2012



I am experiencing the let down that comes with the end of a really great holiday. I liken my quick descent back to reality to the loud gurgle and sucking swirl of water that I always stare at after finishing a sink load of dirty dishes. 
“Uh huh, there goes my ‘Cloud 9,’ out with the dishwater.” 


All the life tasks I conveniently forgot about while in Wales now loom in the air around me akin to a cat litter box desperate in need of an emptying. 


Thank heaven for my “Sawzall.” 


There’s no better cure for a “down in the dumps” mood than gripping my hands around a reciprocating power tool and finding something to demolish. 
The autonomous act lifts my spirits, propels my confidence to deal with the realities of life and reminds me that I am indeed the “Jackie of All Trades” in my neck of the woods. 


The trouble is that in the throes of all that handheld supremacy I go berserk and can’t stop.


When all is said and done, the poor tree that I was just going to trim back a tad, now looks like my eyebrows did in Grade 8 when I kept plucking one and then the other to equal them out. In the end I was left with pencil thin tufts that got me stares in ways I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. 


I awoke to my writing day Monday morning to the sound of “Millie” the cat sitting outside my open bedroom window and whose 5 a.m. “rooster call” sounded like the life was being drawn out of her through a straw. 


It wasn’t exactly how I want to be yanked out of the dream I was having of being carried off to safety by Idris Elba of “Thor” fame. 
However the caterwaul beat the banshee wail I heard at 3 a.m. in Wales and that I was sure was about to crawl through the second story window of the room I was sleeping in and chew my face off.

I’ve always said I was born in the arms of a great imagination and as it turns out it was a screaming fox and not the infamous banshee. Still, the little hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention when I think about the sound that shattered the Welsh night air. 


That lovely slice of the United Kingdom also sports adder snakes and hairy spiders made legend by the stories of my fine hosts. I was warned a couple of times about the eight-legged creature spotted on the ceiling of a 17-th century pub “loo” but I was in and out so fast that the arachnid never had time to get a spit line out and down to my Canadian carcass. 


When I arrived and was soaked in the world of the Welsh, it was all I could do not to want learn how to speak the language. 
Be still my stupidity. 


With all due respect to the ancient dialect I don’t think I can make my tongue and palate work like that—unless we’re talking food.


One of my favorite experiences in Wales was a day trip to car boot sales where, in parkades and fields, scores of people sold “one man’s junk another man’s treasure” to the masses.


And it was at one particular car boot field where I was introduced to “Effin Effin,” a ruggedly handsome Welsh bloke rightly and famously named in South Wales for his rampant use of the English four-letter social expletive. Jaw-dropping amazing. 


My lovely hosts went over the top with home and food hospitality and if they ever decide to break out into the tourism business I’ll be their booking agent—gladly.

I wanted to try all the ethnic foods I could and although there were a couple of times when I wished I hadn’t said that out loud as I stared at my plate, I learned to work Welsh delicacies into tasty little adventures. 


My very first Welsh meal was faggots and peas and as soon as the meat passed over my lips I knew I probably wasn’t going to ask for the recipe. 


I appreciate that Mr. and Mrs. Hibbard love it. I love a fried egg on peanut buttered toast and they just couldn’t fathom that either.
I tried the gelatinous dark paste “laver bread,” and cockles with bits of bacon and oh, yes! duck eggs. Quacking good. 


My friends kept telling me I would gain two stone before I headed back to Canada. I thought they were talking about all the rocks I would pack in my suitcase from the beaches at Swansea and Rhossili. Nope.


If I gained any weight at all while on holiday it wasn’t from liver and seaweed but from the Welsh cakes, sugar mice, and clotted cream teas I stuffed in my face. I’m a sweetie through and through.


But hey, most of you knew that already.  :)

The Anatomy of My Whole Life

 Monday, May 21, 2012

I wake up at 6 a.m. every morning, pour a cup of coffee, sit in my favorite chair, write in my diary, and read a daily reflection from “The Book of Awakening” by Mark Nepo.

Nepo is a cancer survivor and his book is touted as one “about life, informed by the shadows of death” and full of one-a-day thoughts that are “vitamins for the soul.”

In my view no truer statements could be made.

This is the second year that I’ve re-read it on a daily basis and I’m constantly finding new connections to the wise words and how the book often mirrors my own journey.

Until now I’ve lived a very safe existence—one that’s calculated and organized so that I turn as many of the knobs on the horizontal and vertical as possible.

It’s the control freak in me. I’ve prided myself on being a subtle commander, but in then end a control junkie in my little world all the same.

Thank you for change.

I know how words work. I know how to put them together to get my point across in this space but they fail me now as I scrape my brain dictionary for the right “write” ones that will paint a picture of how my trip to Wales has opened my eyes and planted a seed.

Sure, people travel in big fat planes to far away places every day and I don’t know a thing about what it does to them.

We’re all unique in our life experiences and I try to respect my fellow man and woman in theirs.

However I only own mine.

I will admit that I thought I knew the world by the view out my kitchen window, the one the media paints on television, the Internet, and yes, even the newspaper.

If I had allowed some of those avenues to decide for me I would have never climbed into an aircraft with hundreds of other people and flown. I was an unwitting victim of hype and uncertainty and the unknown.

As I write and read this, perhaps I shouldn’t ditz the view from my kitchen window. It’s pretty darn amazing.

Nonetheless I thought life was just fine and cozy-safe right here at home plunk in the middle of 59 acres of country paradise. No better place in the world did I imagine there to be—until I flew across the ocean purely on faith that it was okay to let go and let live.

Thank you for change.

And too, my friends and family kept telling me that if anyone deserved this trip to Wales it was me—for all I’d been through in the past two years and most specifically the end of my marriage to a man I dearly loved who decided not to come home and then finding love again with a gentleman’s gentleman and abruptly facing the instant end of a lovely future with him when he committed suicide.

I don’t know if there has ever been a time since I first announced the story behind my trip to Wales that I’ve agreed with anyone who replied with, “you deserve this.”

I have had a very difficult time believing that I deserve good things should happen in my life and I think it’s because if I started to believe that then I somehow would diminish the rewards that grow out of me when my soul is wounded.

And yet if I believed that wishing upon a star made wishes come true, then two years ago I would have wished Peter loved me enough to stay married, and I most certainly would have called on all the stars and planets to change Jon’s mind to more promising horizons on that fateful day in January.  And I did do my share of wishing.

But the Universe unfolded anyway.

More important to me than what I “deserve” in life’s peach orchard is that I have faith that I can grow good from the pits.

Mark Nepo writes “Perhaps the secret to growing from our wounds is to live close to the earth, to live without our hearts and minds and bellies always in touch—both inside and out—with that which is larger than we are.

Perhaps, when cut in two, it is a life of humility, of risking to be at one with the soil of our experience, that allows us to heal into something entirely new.”

The morning I left for Wales I wrote in my diary, “I want more than what I can get by wishing. I have so much life to live, so many opportunities ahead of me to experience. I will love again and in the mean time I love my life today just as it is with me in it.”

William Blake was right. “The cut worm forgives the plow.”

I am living proof.

A "Wale" of a story in the making

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

I was born with a great imagination, and as I was flying over the North Atlantic Ocean one week ago on my way to Britain I thought my mind’s eye had a pretty good idea what this trip would be like.

Suffice to say I had no clue. This experience has been more than anything I could have possibly dreamed for myself.

I don’t even know where to begin. My editor would say to start with the most important thing and even that advice is difficult just now because there are so many stories trying to jump through my fingertips to the keyboard.

The eight-hour flight to Europe was long and I didn’t sleep a wink. How could I? I was alight with anticipation not to mention that I could not take my eyes off the near full moon that shone in the night sky and through my airplane window for the entire journey. 

We reached the north coast of Ireland and England just before dawn and at 39,000 ft and clear skies it was a sight to behold as the cities below were lit up in the colour of gold.

When I landed in Amsterdam for a 10-hour layover I felt like I could do anything. The world was my oyster.

But even oysters wind up in nets.

The time and space continuum froze for me when six Dutch security guards gathered to ponder an anomaly in my carry-on luggage as it passed through the x-ray machine at the boarding gate for the flight to Wales.

I felt like a foreigner in a foreign country. Wait a minute—I was.

Another guard appeared and took my passport from my trembling fingers and pulled out his mobile phone. All I heard was my birth name and “Cardiff, Wales” tossed about in another language.

I was convinced I was a goner. My identity would be red-flagged at every airport on every continent. They made movies called “Missing” and “Vanished” about these kinds of things.

 I looked up and there were the wide-eyed faces of all my co-passengers who were sitting pretty and in the clear and staring at my folly.

Security was backed up for 15 minutes as I waited for “special ops” to arrive. I was sweating like Arnold Schwarzenegger when his wife found out about the housekeeper, but I also was as clueless as Alicia Silverstone about what could possibly be in my possession to cause such an international incident.

Eventually a guy who looked like Alan Rickman (the actor who played the bad guy in “Die Hard”) arrived wearing a flack jacket and walked over to me after looking at the x-ray image and promptly said “tell me everything that is in your bag—exactly.”

My mind went blank and all that spilled out of my mouth was “Well, I ate all the chocolate.”

It was hopeless. My nerves shot, I couldn’t remember but four of the some 25 things I had packed in that bag.

“Mr. Flack Jacket,” with a stern, heavy accent and with big blue vein throbbing in his forehead, held up his hand and said, “I will get your bag and we will open it together.”

I had nearly everything pulled out of the bag onto the table, naming off each item as I went as eight security guards stood around the contents. Suddenly one of them pointed to the earplugs for my iPhone and a metal belt clip on the “travel approved” silk zip bag that had contained my passport.

Mr. Flack Jacket nodded and left and I was free to go.

If it weren’t for the streak of white hair that had suddenly appeared on my head, there’d have been no evidence of the incident—unless of course we counted the huddle of passengers who had all moved to the other side of the room when I stepped through security to sit down amongst my fellow flyers.

The rest of the trip was “crackin,” but that’s another story—or two.