Nookish

I haven't been able to really write in some time and there are reasons. My life is on a pause for the next while, because my brain and body made me do it; I was not listening so they ganged up to make their point.

I was sitting at work one day, after a series of back-to-back respiratory viruses had left me physically depleted, and suddenly I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing. My mind went blank and the simplest tasks slipped away into a maze of confusion. It was scary. I went to see my primary care provider and together we began to untangle the knots that had choked me into a complete stop. She is a smart cookie and knew the right questions to ask. She also had had an eerily similar experience herself, for which I remain very grateful as it means she "gets" what I have a hard time explaining. Including the brutal self-recrimination part.

(I was raised in the era of the Protestant work ethic motto of "Suck it up Buttercup" meaning I went to work no matter what, without complaint because that's what was expected. Taking time off was akin to weakness, in mind and body and that was shameful. We didn't want to let our co-workers down, or miss a paycheck. In those days, employers had the same expectation and could find ways to fire a person they saw as "slacking" if it interfered with production. Thankfully, workplace laws are different now and workers are a bit more protected.)

There were a number of contributing factors. I'd said goodbye to the massage and reflexology practice that had sustained me for 27 years, and with which I had defined myself more than I realised. I/we had experienced a huge number of significant deaths over a period of 10 months, people who had been key figures in my life; family members, mentors, teachers, and contemporaries: I stopped counting after we hit 20. I had taken on a full time job with a health centre I believed in and had worked for previously in a part time capacity, a job that I was very pleased to get, but one that shifted constantly.

Repeated viruses tanked my immune system. I stopped sleeping more than a couple of hours a night and awakened choking on mucus and flailing from nightmares. My muscles and joints hurt and I didn't digest food properly, leaving me with constant nausea and poor nutritional uptake. I fought to get up and just kept trying to push through each dizzying day, but ended up calling in sick more and more often. I became anxious and angry at myself for feeling so vulnerable: because anger is easier than admitting fear. It bothered me deeply that my wonderful office mate and our exceptional manager kept having to cover my ass and that clients, volunteers, and programs were left waiting. Even my teeth were crumbling. From clenching everything back into my throat and lungs. And my soul.

And then I stopped being able to think at all, or remember the simplest things.

I went numb in order to cope.

Blood work revealed that my vitamin D stores were 20% of what they needed to be. I tan easily and figured I was getting enough D from being outside a lot on our micro-farm. Nope. Symptoms of D deficiency include: joint pain and swelling, muscle weakness, tingling and numbing of hands and feet, cognitive issues, disturbed sleep architecture, extreme fatigue and cramping muscle spasms. My practitioner was smart enough to order the test based on a hunch, and she was bang-on. Suddenly a whole lot of seeming unconnected symptoms made perfect sense. Its a slow cumulative deficiency. I am now taking 5 times the daily recommended dose of D and it's starting to make a difference after only a couple of weeks. It's going to take time to get me where I need to go. I am still not sleeping and hence undergoing Cognitive Behaviour Therapy for chronic insomnia. Medications don't work for this, it's a matter of re-setting the sleep drive with careful steps over time, and knowing that it gets worse before it gets better.

But my brain remained in overwhelm drive.

In a flash of inspiration I called my therapist from decades ago, to see if by some chance she was still practising and would agree to see me on zoom, to teach me some better coping strategies. She is, and she does, thank heavens! She knows me and we can skip the preliminaries and get right into things. She also dovetails really well with my primary care practitioner and they tag team me. Together they added to the list of official diagnoses, Compassion Fatigue, which I'd only dimly heard of. I had not had time to grieve and process between the deaths of loved ones, so a cumulative effect swamped me into feeling nothing at all. I was offered the analogy of hitting my thumb with a hammer...the pain is so extreme that you don't even feel it at first because your body goes into protective mode until you can catch up. It was also pointed out to me that I'd put a great deal of my creative and caring energies into a successful practice over 27 years and having to let it go had taken a significant piece of my identity with it. I'd specialised in working with people for whom massage had been challenging: people with body dysmorphia due to illness, trauma, size, scars, age, etc. I missed them. I missed listening, easing seized and painful muscles, and supporting others as they became more comfortable with themselves through patience and practice, one gentle , non-judgemental step at a time.

Which I now need to do for myself. Irony of ironies.

I am at that age where elders and contemporaries are getting sick and dying, it's a statistical inevitability. But these rapidly disappearing loved ones were not acquaintances, they were all people who had impacted my life significantly and helped form the person I am still becoming. They represent to some degree my history and my story. Even now, I find myself picking up the phone to call or text, or composing an email, forwarding a joke, needing to ask a question or seek advice from someone who has moved on to whatever comes after the death of the body. I can put the phone down, but I can't remove their names from my contact lists. Reminders and triggers are everywhere. Rather than fight or deny them, I try to allow them to be part of the shifting kaleidoscope that contributes to my new normal. Growth means change, and some of that means loss. I grieve not just for myself but for the families and friends of those key people. Too many, too quickly.

I have the luxury of medically-endorsed time off. EI sick benefits are coming soon. I have been instructed to rest, eat simply, not think too hard, just allow thoughts and feelings to surface without judgement or analysis. To doodle freely and bypass expectations. That's not easy for a usually over-busy brain like mine. I have to take my vitamins, not push myself, not make any big decisions for a while. Thankfully, my Beloved also gets it, and is gently supportive, watching me slowly return to the person she has lovingly invested so much in. The stony, stoic flatness I experienced was unnerving for her too. My body remains exhausted and unpredictable, my short term memory and word-finding skills still suck and I have to remind myself that it's okay to not be okay. Having met a couple of people who have been through something like this, really helps me feel validated in the amount time it will take to become well again. Regarding my employment work situation, I have been reminded : "Its not your job to take care of them. It's theirs." Okay.

If I am fortunate, I will get another 25-30 years on the planet and I want to spend them well, especially since they seem to go so fast. The last thing I want to be fighting is myself. Managing perceived expectations versus the glorious sticky mess of human reality is a fool's game and can make a person sick. And it can all be gone in a heartbeat anyway, in spite of our best intentions. Savour it all.

Grief is a weighty, water-logged thing that sucks at my boots until I have to stand still in them. I remind myself that it is not cartoon quicksand, I will not disappear beneath it forever even though some days it rises up to my chin and I close my mouth just in case.

I close my mouth in fear of the howl it may surprise me with.

I close my mouth to grit fear and anger between my teeth until they crumble.

I close my mouth because I cannot inhale any more grief in this moment...mine or anyone else's. I cannot exhale without choking.

None of these things are true except when pain inscribes the words on the inside of my eyelids:" I miss you".

One of the true pleasures of getting a little older is perspective. How we see ourselves changes in the course of a lifetime and often it is by looking behind us that we realize the effects of not only where, but whom we have been.

It's easy when we are younger, when we belong to someone else; when we are someone's child, sibling, friend, when we begin to comprehend the meanings in our family name, with all it's history of culture and place. It slowly dawns on us that we are part of a lineage, that the world did not begin and will not end because of our self-interests.

A little older and we become in addition to all the rest, someone's lover or spouse, perhaps someone's parent, usually someone's employee or business partner and we work out how to make a living, sometimes even in the sacrifice of other things that define us; like a home or a family. We are busy figuring out where we fit in the machinations of modern economy, taking on responsibilities, planning for future security if there is anything left after rent and groceries have been reconciled. We shift our feet as our foundations ebb and flow, we dance to the music of the most immediate needs, we strive, we falter, we learn and we keep going.

If we are fortunate, we have travelled a little, met and mastered our challenges, maximized our potentials and have begun to enjoy the luxury of choices; where to go next , what signposts to watch for and which deviations are worth exploring. We have weathered some losses, knocked the dust from the knees of our pants and stood tall once again, ready for whatever lies ahead.

What I have found I was not ready for, were the changes that my life has made in me. If I live into my 80s, it means that I am now firmly in the last quarter of my time in this incarnation. And I am discovering that I am really not at all who I thought I used to be. Which isn't a bad thing. Growth is growth and I suspect that sometimes, much of Life is merely the process of elimination. There are a lot of things I still need: a roof, good company, meaning and purpose. But there's a lot that I used to need that has simply slipped away from the identity I am discovering beneath the layers of former definition.

I still need a roof, but I no longer care if the furniture matches as long as it gives me comfort, body and soul. We were raised on 3 distinct meals a day , with supper comprised of some kind of meat and potatoes, but most days, I am quite content with an omelette of leftovers or a grilled cheese. The lawn need not be perfect but there must be flowers, and trees, and space to breathe. I've lost many family and friends to age, illness, or accident. Too many contemporaries. Too many of those wonderful (and a couple of wretched) people who helped me define myself as I walked my path. I don't need to go out dancing and meet people on the weekends as I once did, but instead dance at home, keep the dearest ones closer and make a point of staying within arm's reach, saying what needs to be said, and holding hands against the wind.

Having been largely self-employed or working for social service organizations without pensions or extras, like many I will eventually rely on what I have paid into the government to keep in trust for my old age, plus whatever I can still cobble on my own. And therein is the latest crux of self-definition: what do I have to offer the world that will not cost me more than I earn? Arthritis has reduced my ability to use my hands and body as I once did so easily in massage, reflexology, landscaping, and being on my feet all day. My brain and my heart are just fine, though they both hurt and remain confused at the state of the World. I am gloriously fortunate to have been born in Canada, but selfishly I am relieved at no longer having to live in any of the cities where once I attended every protest , march, and rally in the name of a myriad of human rights issues. The current anger scares me. Anger comes from fear, which in turn can cause desperate impulsive actions in the face of threats, real or perceived. Our fears have been deliberately politicised, and weaponized against us. I don't know how to answer to that ,or answer for it.

I come from the " suck it up!" generation, the " stop crying or I will give you something to cry about" school of discipline, the "never complain, never explain" philosophy of life. It has mostly served me very very well. But there comes a time, in the name of truth, to let the shields down and dispense with the mottos, and just be. Assuming the choice has not been beaten out of you by the twin pillars of shame and guilt left behind in the suffocating dust of expectation.

I remain bewildered by the churches who persist in telling people they are not good enough for Heaven. By the politicos who insist on pitting races and cultures and economic differences against one another in some weird and false sense of elitism . I'm tired of the worn out axiom that all life is sacrifice. Where is the balance?

15 days ago we brought home a set of day old chicks, Red Sexlink, which have proven wonderfully good layers and easy to care for . At a day old, each about the size of my thumb, a baker's dozen of surprisingly shrill peepers came in cardboard box too small to hold a pair of shoes. They only half-filled it. We set them up a table-top condo and dipped their beaks to get them drinking. When they are hatching they absorb the stuff in the egg through their belly buttons, giving them enough nutrition to get through a day or two, then they are at totally at our mercy, and quite fragile. Cold and dehydration are the biggest threats. We watch carefully for splayed legs or pasty vents , but they all look like healthy little peepers.

These girls are our 3 set of chicks, the first 6 were ready-to-lay at 17 weeks, quite happy until a mink intervened on their first Christmas Day. The following Spring we got our first dozen day olds and all of the fun of watching them wake up to the world. At that age they must be kept at 95-100 degrees fahrenheit for the first week, reducing the temps by 5 degrees each week thereafter until they are developed enough to cope with the same temps that we do. This means that as it's April, we have had 13 demanding little divas living in a succession of cardboard boxes on our kitchen table, with the heat lamp strung from the ceiling fixture and some mesh across the top to discourage our curious cat. Our older hens, having pretty much stopped laying at age 3 or so, have been free-ranging themselves silly on our property, enjoying a smorgasbord feast of bugs, seeds, and sprouts, including my Lilies of the Valley. There are only 5 of the big girls left, due to mostly natural processes and the occasional intervention having taken 7 already. We think it's a happy and well-earned retirement for the survivors. They have pretty much flown the coop. Which means, I need to Spring clean it for the new tenants. Who, if I may admit, have worn out their welcome after 2 weeks of messy, smelly, gawky, mouthy, pre-teen behaviour. Good thing they are still cute, although that too is changing what with fluff sprung like dandelions and new deep red pin feathers appearing in strategic places.

The coop is kept tidy and healthy throughout the year, but the big clean comes after 6 months or so of Winter layering....all of the things that come from a chicken's body, mixed with about 8 inches of accumulated wood chips that absorb the worst and keep them warm. It takes me about 4 hours, with a wheelbarrow, a snow shovel, an ice scraper, and a broom to get down to the concrete floor....filling the barrow about 7 times and running it all to next years compost pile. I insulate the walls with moving blankets over the Winter and this time,discovered 4 large mouse nests in the process of removing them. Plus a hole chewed through the bottom of the bin where I keep the mash, so those wee buggers had a good Winter all snug in feathers and down, not to mention well-fed. Off I went to the feed store for fresh bales of shavings and a large galvanized bin with a tight lid.

Saturday mornings at the feed store finds customers all in some form of work duds, picking up whatever it takes to get the current chores accomplished. On a rural property, something always needs to be turned, moved, cleaned, fed, watered, built, deconstructed, or replaced. People greet one another by name with a nod and always a smile. I have a city friend who will only purchase rubber boots from our feed store. Its not a large place, but you can get almost anything there, and we do. But the feeds that they blend are what makes them famous. Most of the time,before I get to the counter, they know what I want and I find it waiting on the loading dock outside. They also order the chicks, so since its been a couple of careful weeks, they're expecting us. Its nice to be a part of the regular crew.

Back home, I have barrowed and scraped and swept, and wiped out the laying boxes, filling them with fresh shavings even though our little ones won't be producing eggs until September. ( I remember our very first one, almost 5 years ago, tiny and perfect and still warm in my hand. What a thrill!) I haul in a couple of inches of sweet smelling shavings and spread them evenly, then bring in the galvanized barrel and fill it with chick mash and a fresh scoop. Waterers and feeders get filled and placed, and the very last thing to do is hang the heat lamp low enough to keep them cozy another couple of weeks, and high enough on a strong chain to avoid causing a fire. Back into the house I go and my Beloved interrupts her knitting seminar long enough to help me lift the sagging cardboard box from the kitchen table, out the sliding door and across the yard into the coop. The little ones, carried like tiny Egyptian Queens are stunned into silence as their world shifts quite literally beneath them. We manoeuver the box into place under the lamp and I slice one side of it away, enlarging their playpen 10 times. They huddle in one corner, blinking, heads tilted and tiny wings tucked as close to their bodies as possible, tufts of fluff floating to the ground, everything suddenly very different. Gone are the cooking smells and the dog rumbles, the conversation of two familiar female voices, the hum of the refrigerator and the beep of the microwave. These are replaced with the sound of the wind, the scrabbling of chipmunks across the roof, and the sweet smell of pine.

I bring in a lawn chair to sit with them a while as they adjust. A few tentative cheeps are all I've heard, each rising with a question mark at the end. Curiosity wins out over confusion and one brave little chick steps to the edge of the box peering around a minute before she steps out. She looks at me, and I murmur soft noises of encouragement. Out she plops, mostly feet-first into a soft landing. Tenatatively she takes a step and then another and before I know it she has stretched her wings to their full length as if to say :" I claim this land in the name of mt sisters!" She smells the water, locates her crumble feed and having satisfied herself that the basics are in place, she begins to explore. A couple of her sisters shortly follow her lead, but the rest hang back, still awaiting their bravery. They comfort one another with soft coos, and I answer as best I can. I leave them to their exploring, knowing that when I check in a couple of hours later, there will be chicken poop on my chair, evidence that all is well and we have begun the cycle successfully once again. In a day or two, I will remove what's left of the cardboard condo and consign it to the fire pit, with their baby box and some groundfall and we'll have the first bonfire of the season.

Somewhere between Disney and acne we are led to believe that love is a constantly shiny thing, that it must be unrelentingly romantic and sexy and full of passion and purple prose. Of course there are moments, especially in the courtship days when we work extra hard at being our best selves in an effort to be desirable. Its a mating game as old as forever and unlikely to change in spite of dating apps. Its fed by the marketing trends of the day as we become convinced that we must cover our natural selves in deceptive augmentations that cost a bundle and are soon yesterday's news. Don't get me wrong, I did my share of blow-dry styling, body scents, and boots shined to mirrors. It was fun to play the part, be obvious in the flirt, laugh through deliberate double-entendres. Lust was luscious.

Part of the privilege of getting older is letting go of the clutter on all levels. Its not a lack of effort to let things be simpler, it's self-awareness and self-preservation. I love to dance but the volume in public places means I cannot hear you when you speak , and frankly I know you have things to say. I am in your company because I enjoy who you are and I chose you to share the dance with me. Whooping it up at a wedding is one thing, but I can't do the clubs just for the sake of a night out. I did my time.

I'd rather go for a walk, maybe hold hands, and look at the sky together.

I love you in your faded jeans with a bit of bed-head and a deep sigh when you take your first sip of morning tea.

I love to have that tea brewing because I am usually up first.

Love is clean fresh flannel sheets on a cold Winter's night. Its putting seeds into the soil and topping up the washer fluid in your car. Its knowing when to shut up. Its eye-rolling from across the aisle at the grocery store when the poor kid at the cash register has never been properly taught how to make change. Its enduring the oldies radio station on Sunday mornings and still missing Stuart McLean's Vinyl Cafe.

Love is being safe in one of you making some decisions for two. Love is reminding me that yoga pants and slippers are really not fit public attire even for the gas station. Love is allowing one another to play to their strengths and being the best cheerleader when it comes to admitting and fixing mistakes as well as celebrating the victories. Love is understanding that time apart is still love.

You want to get my interest? Ask me to dance in the living room, apropos of nothing. Ask me to stand beside you when you do something that scares you. Let me hold you when you're not even sure what's making you feel blue. Laugh at your own jokes...that makes me remember how nuts I am about you because you don't hold back in your quirks. Remind me tactfully when its time to get a haircut. Trust me to drive while you knit socks in the passenger seat.

Love is a long game where the goal posts are apt to shift along with age and bumps in the turf and worrisome side-liners. Its also forgiveness for forgetfulness, and the magnetism of shared memory.

Getting older comes with loss. But we can hold space and make space at the same time, because life goes on in its way and all we can do is try to honour all of it's seasons.

Just this past week alone, I learned of the death of someone once very dear, reconnected with someone else very special from long ago, and ended a 27 year aspect of my self-identity.

About 35 years ago I developed an autoimmune illness that took 3 years to diagnose and another year or so to learn to manage. It was a scary and unpredictable time, but I was eventually able to return to school to become a masseuse and reflexologist, the thinking being that portable self-employment would give me the flexibility to deal with health flares as they came. It was a very good decision and those skills took me places I might not otherwise have experienced: including hospice palliative care. The personal mission I developed was to make hands-on body work accessible to people who might experience personal barriers due to physical and/or emotional trauma, dysmorphia, etc. I simply wanted to provide muscle comfort in a safe space. I understood through my own experiences the many barriers to becoming comfortable in one's own body. Everybody who ever graced my table taught me a great deal. I'd like to think that they helped me become more as a person, more empathetic, inclusive, and compassionate.

After 27 years, my neck and my hands have let me know they've had enough, through wrist cysts and compressed discs. If I am lucky I will get another 25-30 years on the planet and I don't want to spend them in pain because I didn't listen to my own body. I have been reducing my practice slowly for months, and a couple of days ago I finished strong with two 90-minute sessions back to back. I gave myself every advantage beforehand, a B12 shot, extra rest, Advil and lots of water. It was important to me to maintain my A game right till the final flourish. I came away very satisfied and of course a little sad. I sold my travel table, gave away a few tools of the trade and am deciding what to do with what's left. I will keep a few things around to help myself and my Beloved deal with our own aches and stiffness. I will continue to make my special salve. But, I also know that I will need to find something to fill the gap left by retirement of this sort; we tend to choose the professions we stand to gain the most from, and for 27 years, through assisting others, I came to some peace with my own traumas, my own body, my own sense of safety and comfort.

As we travel, we grow distant from certain people and places out of necessity and/or circumstance. I got word that someone who had been key in my younger adult life had died of an illness I wasn't even aware they had. While I express my condolences to her family and friends, I also selfishly wonder why I hadn't heard about it sooner, and if i could have helped make that transition any smoother. I wish I'd had some opportunity to say goodbye and a few other things. There is no doubt in my mind that she was very well supported.

Among the few people who did reach out to tell me about this individual's death was someone I would not have expected to hear from. Someone I'd hurt a long time ago , and whom I know has had some major losses and challenges of her own. The conversation was brief but kind, and I feel we both came away with the understanding that scar tissue, given time,becomes its own strength.

Between the two experiences, my mind overflowed with memories of a time in my life that was by turns, selfish and exhilarating. In our 20s, few of us have any clue as to who we are let alone who we might become or the effect we have on other people. At 62, I have a better idea, and I cannot help but cringe at so many of the things I did then that I would do so much differently now. That is what maturity brings; a bittersweet perspective. Forgiving myself is something I'm still figuring out. Funny how we can be kinder to others more easily than we can to the face in the mirror. We forget sometimes that we are mirrors of one another but seem to need a separate subset of rules. I think back to those youthful days and cannot help but smile at the antics, the drama, the sense of entitlement and immortality. In spite of my arrogant mistakes, I am grateful for the lessons that came with them. Grateful for a sense of humor that endures, and the unbelievable patience of those who have loved me in spite of myself. There is no going back. Wonderful memories soften the edges if we let them.

These days, our home is full of unabashed joy.

There are stories that change one life, two, and then like a pebble dropped into a puddle, a concentric reaction that spreads like an embrace.

I have the honour of sharing in such a story.

On our 3rd date nearly 15 years ago, my Beloved told me that she’d had a child as a teenager and he was adopted out, for all of the best reasons. When that boy turned 16, she contacted the adoption agency and made certain that her contact information was up to date so that should he ever choose to find her, he could. About 2 years ago, through an online ancestry forum, he did.

We were sitting in the living room, engaged in separate projects when I heard a sharp intake of breath and glanced up to see an expression on her face that I had never seen before and would struggle to name. A curious light came into her eyes as she looked at me and then back to the computer screen in front of her, awed, disbelieving, cautiously hopeful. “ Let me read you something” she said in the softest voice.

The email was from a then 36-year old man on the West Coast, who had come across a version of the full name he knew had been given at birth. He wanted to ask the author of the ancestry tree also bearing the same uncommon surname if she could possibly provide information about his biological mother. My Beloved had to gather herself for a little while before daring to answer him. We found out a little later that this note was his first actual enquiry. He had no way of knowing that it would be the only one he’d ever need. He gave his adopted name and we quickly found his photo on a social media platform. The image left no doubt in our minds that he was her son. The resemblance was undeniable.

As the genetic connection was confirmed through emails and photos, reality hit with a psychological sledgehammer. My Beloved spun quietly in a decades-old, echoing maelstrom of  shame. It all came flooding back; the shock of unexpected pregnancy all but suffocated by  layers of  judgement from the Church, divorced parents whose opinions and advice were polar opposites, disinterest from the young father of the child, and fears for the future of the child himself. They had 10 days together in hospital following the C-section, before choices were given and documents signed. And then came the years of not knowing, of hoping for the best.

The first thing he told her was: “ don’t worry, I have had a good life”.  A kindness for which she was grateful.

They agreed to stick with emails. To go slowly. To take the soaring, treacherously uncertain mountain of emotions one careful step at a time. So many questions. He and his partner had a child. A 2 year old girl. My Beloved, younger than me by 5 years, was also at least biologically, an instant  grandmother. It was almost too much. So much that my Beloved retreated into the relative safety of her brain and away from me and the rest of the World. So much that I called her sister, who’d been present with their own mother for the birth, to come to see her, as I was unnerved and at sea about how to be supportive. It took time.

On a whim, I contacted her son and asked if he felt ready for a video call on Christmas Eve. I assured him my Beloved knew nothing about the request and he was free to say no without repercussion. When he said yes, I asked him to define the parameters that would be most appropriate for him. We were sitting by the light of our xmas tree on Dec 24th when my phone rang with a video connection. I said a very brief hello and then handed the phone over saying “ it’s for you”. To watch the two of them see themselves in one another’s face was breath-stopping. They read one another well beyond whatever words they actually spoke. He introduced his partner and her mother, and the just-turned 3 year old little girl who would prove to be both a buffer and a prism through which the call could safely continue. There were no tears, no effusive holiday greetings, just a few minutes polite conversation unsuccessfully masking the overwhelm on both sides. 

There was a period of many months when there was little contact between them, both mother and son being introverts by nature, especially when communicating feelings.  Luckily, neither myself nor his partner have that quirk; she and I became weekly online pen pals. News of another child on the way delighted us. My Beloved began knitting up a storm and sent a parcel to her grandchild containing a gorgeous warm sweater with kite shaped buttons, and a Minnie Mouse toque complete with sparkles and a bow knitted from red yarn left in her own mother’s sewing kit.  Four generations connected in a little knitted hat. There was also a newborn sized fox outfit. We received a video of the grand unveiling ending in a shy “thank you” and a kiss blown from the palm of a 3 year old. 

It took a full year before my Beloved began to tell her story beyond her siblings, who already knew. Each time, the telling became a little lighter, a little more enthusiastic, even daring to be joyful. A little boy was born, and his biological grandmother continued knitting adorable baby clothes. Professional photos were arranged and we finally got to see them all together, a little family of four, swaddled in cuddles no less genuine for having been posed.

It took another year before we arranged to meet, face to face. 

The trip was going to be full of benchmarks. We hadn’t had a proper vacation in 4 years. It would require a 5 hour flight and I am not a happy flyer. But my job was to provide a safe zone and a soft landing for my Beloved, whatever the reunion might bring. So, she found a direct flight, paid extra for  bulkhead seats and I worked on negotiating with my claustrophobia-motion-sickness plane willies.

I watched trepidation gather in my Beloved like breathless uneasiness before a storm. On the plane, we held hands and exchanged wordless glances. Even the sheer magnificence of the mountains below, and the turbulence of flying over wildfires were not quite enough to distract us. We took only carry on baggage. Upon landing in Abbotsford Saturday morning,we met the practicalities of car rental, reaching accommodations in Vancouver, adjusting to a time change and establishing a plan. A bit of time to ourselves, we visited Granville Island,the only parking spot available happened to be right outside a yarn store of course. We visited a few shops and picked out hand-puppets for the kids. We stuck our toes in the Pacific Ocean thus completing a circumnavigation together of the North American continent: Miami, Churchill, Halifax and Vancouver in that order.Had some great sushi at Nobu. Met some wonderful cousins for brunch on Sunday and watched their faces split with delighted amazement as my Beloved explained why we had really come to BC. On Monday we undertook one of the best drives in Canada;  Sea to Sky running from Vancouver to Whistler. My neck hurt from craning it in every direction and I quickly ran out of “Wows”. Crisp, clean, salty air. Variations in landscape from sand to sage to snow. Crystalline cascades, trees springing impossibly from sheer rock faces, posted warnings about black bears and bungee jumping locations. We wandered, bodies and minds as present as we could recall being in a very long time. Stood wordlessly at mesmerising  lookouts, remembering for a moment just how vast the World really is. A quirky little bistro provided an awesome lunch. On the way back down we picked up a hitchhiker returning from the other side of the mountains with a huge pack full of sage bundles to sell, earning ferry money en route to her home on a fibreglass boat tethered to an island. We made certain she had what she needed.

Beloved and I have reached a place in our lives where words aren’t always necessary; we can feel a shift in the energy of the other, let the unasked questions answer for themselves all in good time. We don’t always get it right, but our next steps would be bigger than any mountain we’d travelled so far and we wanted to tread carefully. We checked into our reservation at Harrison Hot Springs, 20 minutes outside of Chilliwack where we would be meeting the next day, with my Beloved’s son and his family, for a picnic.  

We pulled into the parking lot on a sunny, breezy Tuesday afternoon, laden with toys and snacks. We saw him watch us arrive, dip his head and take a long deep breath. His partner waited nearby, one eye on the kids and the other sending him strength. My Beloved took her own deep breath and stepped out of the car. There were no tears, no drama, just quick hugs and introductions. His partner and I , social media pen pals for months, went off to amuse the kids, leaving our two introverts to fend for themselves. They sat at a table, profiles nearly identical, with shy, mirror-image smiles. Most of that initial conversation remains between them, but after about 40 minutes, we joined them and laid out a picnic of strawberries, peas, meat and cheese, salties and sweets. The 4 year old watched my Beloved very carefully, knowing that this was the lady who sent all the knitted goodies and having been told that Daddy grew in her belly as she had grown in her own Mummy’s tummy. She seemed to recognise some kind of connection from the moment they met and I got to watch it grow before my very eyes. The picnic lasted about 3 and a half hours, until the kids were worn out, all 4 adults having taken turns feeding and herding them, little walk-away pauses to digest lunch and reality. 38 years worth. 

We made plans for them to visit us Wed afternoon at the resort, so the kids could play in the family pool. When they arrived, it was with the announcement that they had booked a room too. Struggles involving other family health matters had been going on for some time and they decided it would be good to take a little break. We were ecstatic.  Swimming, supper, bedtime routines with the wee ones, and breakfast Thursday morning. More than we ever could have asked for. The kids wanted one more swim, and as checkout time grew closer, they decided they would like to stay one more night. I cannot begin to describe the natural-ness of it all. Its hard to hold anything back  when everybody is in a bathing suit, relaxing in warm mineral waters, surrounded by mountains and sunshine. It was joyful. No raised voices, no tantrums, no helicoptering, no judgements, no resentments, nothing but relief and gratitude. Another supper, another bedtime routine, one more breakfast together and suddenly we stood with packed vehicles in the roundabout in front on the hotel on Friday morning. We had a date with my Beloved’s stepmom 4 hours away, but would be back for the 4 year olds dance recital on Saturday morning. Hugs all around, my Beloved and her boy saving one another for last. It was a little too quick and his partner asked that they do it again so she could take a photo. So they embraced again, but this time, he settled right in, my Beloved allowed herself to be held and they took their sweet wordless time letting go. It was magical. 

We drove through the Fraser River Valley inland to Salmon Arm, temperatures climbing way too fast to properly acclimate. Stepmom made a lovely supper while we had an excellent catch-up, and after a few brief hours of fitful sleep, we hit the Coquihalla just after sunrise,over the mountains back to Chilliwack. We made it with moments to spare and as the first group of dancers hit the stage in their sparkly little costumes to the strains of Purple People Eater, I cried my eyes out. We’d been asked several times how we wanted the kids to address us and had answered that our first names were enough, but they insisted we choose a family moniker. I had promised we would discuss it in the car en route to the recital. Neither of us felt comfortable with Nana, Nanny, Granny, but decided that Grandma would be okay. Watching that little girl in the spotlight, it hit me that I had accepted a key role in her and her brother’s life. Baby number 3 is due in November. My maternal grandmother had meant the world to me. I realised with a joyful jolt that I had a lot to live up to, and that’s when the tears finally came. My Beloved was similarly glassy-eyed and smiling fit to bust. We held hands. The solid reality of family-forward settled on us like a quilt sewn of sunshine stuffed with stardust. (Take that Hallmark!)

Our tiny dancer was pooped after her two performances and desperately needed a nap. So did we. And we’d be flying home the next morning. That alone was more than I was ready to consider. I kept glancing at my Beloved, her face radiant and shifting with a kalidescope of emotion. She seemed to me deeply satisfied in one way, deeply longing in another. She grinned back at me watching her and said “I’m just processing”. We had one more evening to spend. Negotiating by text, we picked up sushi on the way to their home, as you do when your  granddaughter expresses a desire for miso soup.

There were bubbles and water slides on the porch after supper. The showing off of toys and bedrooms, the reading of stories in silly Disney voices, an avalanche of Minnie Mouse stuffies,  and still more dancing in the living room. Mr 15-month old had charmed us from the first and continued his steady stream of ready entertainment, blowing kisses on the run and never missing a trick. Both kids are really smart and happy in themselves, a testament to how they’ve been parented. The final leave-taking was as awkward as it could be when nobody wants it to happen at all. No matter how well the wounds have healed, taking  bandages off is always painful. My Beloved and her son were the last of course. She softly said to him “You are such a good man” and he beamed.

We had just made it back to our hotel room when my phone rang. Our granddaughter wanted to call, even though she didn’t know what words she wanted to use. For us, the wanting was enough. Early the next morning as we packed, there came a 6 second video of her laying in her pile of Minnies, blowing one last kiss and whispering “I miss you”.

There is nothing like an old dog.

We said goodbye to our 14 year old lab yesterday, with him to his last breath, his eyes full of love and trust as we lay on the floor together in one last snuggle. He was very much still his full self, locked into a body that was clearly done. He carried several lipomas on a creaky, failing set of legs, his hearing mostly gone, his ability to do his favorite activities severely compromised by heart issues and age. But he was still him.

We went for one last slow walk around the yard an hour before driving to the vet for the appointment we knew we could no longer postpone. I found myself remembering the hundreds of rambles through woods and fields and winding roads we’d taken over the 13-plus years he was with us. Pembina Valley, Riding Mountain, endless prairie skies and a million stops to sniff the wind, read the moment. An 11 month old hell-on-wheels puppy grew into a most wonderful and eternally goofy companion. His best friend, 6 years older, has been gone for a while and we are taking it on faith that they have happily reunited somewhere. He was excited for one last ride in the car. As I took him to the grassy spot for one last sniff, I saw a licence plate in the parking lot that read TUCKER2. The name of my first dog as an adult, also a big goofy lab. My morning card was Dog. Nudges from Spirit all over the place. 

The vet was wonderful and it was a tender transition, all of us on the floor together.

We have photos and videos and such amazing memories. His bed remains on the floor at the foot of ours, his blanket on the end of the couch, beneath a window from which he could watch until we came home each day. But the medicine vials are gone, and nobody needs help up the stairs anymore. The 2 other animals in the house are acutely aware of the shift in the energies. The silence is deafening. I am managing only small tasks, my eyes leaking in sorrowful surges in spite of the deep knowing that our boy was ready to go. My Beloved is at work today, mourning in her quiet way. The last sound he heard from us was actually laughter about a private joke. We didn’t see that coming, but what a delightful final song for us all. He knew he was loved. We knew we were too.

A client asked me the other day if, when I worked on her face, I could make her look any younger. I answered : just a smile can do that. And then, without thinking too much about it, I offered her a challenge which I will also offer here for anyone who decides it might be worth their attention. Reflection.

Few people I know are ever satisfied with the way they look. Hair, skin, size, age, clothes, and any body part you could name, something’s not quite right.

Well, I have had such a hard time looking in the mirror that for a very long time, I simply stopped. I went so far as to soften my gaze even when I was brushing my teeth or combing my hair. Years’ worth of being unwilling to look because I was so afraid/ashamed/disappointed by what I might see. I doubt I am alone in this.

What changed was the day I decided I had to face up to myself, quite literally. There are a bazillion rah-rah affirmations and exercises designed to challenge us to really look at ourselves, but I went about my immersion in a way I felt I could manage. I stood in front of the mirror above the bathroom sink and I leaned in as closely as I could, until all I could really see where my own eyes. And I looked into them, by degrees until I began to really see them. After a little while, I forgot about the rest of me and just looked carefully.

My eyes are no longer the almost-black brown that they were when I was a child. Their colour has faded to a kind of buckwheat honey, with bits of sunlight glinting here and there. I’ve no doubt that age and sun exposure have had the most to do with the the colour change, and I expect it happened slowly over the years when I wasn’t looking. I’ve worn glasses at least part of the time since I was 9 years old, and I keep a couple of pairs of cheaters around for reading as well as the expensive trifocals that allow me to drive, read the signs, and not hit anything. Within my eyes, there are tiny shadows of grief unresolved, but mostly they are full of light and wonder and an empathetic warmth. Very much like my Mum’s eyes. When I tan in the sunny months, they nearly glitter with the merriment that comes from being so much outdoors, so much cloud-gazing, so much garden and growth. I have to protect them now with decent sunglasses and as little night driving as I can get away with, for they tire more quickly and wander into daydreams that run like movies behind them. They are indeed capable of flashing with hatred, but thankfully only a couple of times out of an entire lifespan. They weep as easily with joy as with sorrow, they often narrow in thought, and have been known to disappear when the rest of my face bursts open within belly laughter. I hope that they also reflect love. I know they are often kind.

Stepping back from the mirror just a wee bit, a couple of other features come in to focus. There are thick folds of skin above and below my eyes, rimmed in fine lashes that like my eyebrows have turned coarse and silvery. At the east and west of my eyes are lines carved deep by adventure, expression, experience. Below are the half-moon shadows of fatigue, fact, and slowing circulation. Those rest upon the full moons of my fleshy cheeks, spotted and scarred but still soft and supple  when dancing cheek to cheek with my Beloved in the living room.

I’m told I have my Grandma’s nose, and it pleases me to know she is visible in my every expression, even having been broken and mended more than once as her timeless heart surely understood.  My lips have had the gift of so many kinds of kisses that they could well have shied away by now, and certainly they are thinner, but no less capable of a genuine smile. The smiles of my Mum and my sister are similar, but not exactly like mine as we’ve each learned indifferent ways. The line of my jaw has softened and it wobbles when I move, in testament to both indulgence and indolence. The flesh there is more than I need, yet also speaks to what I have had the great luxury of consuming. My ears are fairly close to my head, the hair around them so short that anyone can see when I try to lie that the tips turn very red. 

There are creases in my brow, in my neck, in my opinions. 

But I see too, the  moon-faced young kid who smelled like puppies and learned to balance on a  tightrope between poles of parenting. The  sneaky sprite who hid treasures beneath the front porch floorboards, fell asleep in sunny puddles and read beneath the blankets long long past bedtime. I see the eager teen drinking thirstily from the fountains of films, plays, woods and whims and wild things...who could explode with fury, cower with fear, cling to a life-raft of angst and longing, but still dance with abandon when the right songs played, and go days without sleep on the mere hint of adventure.

I see the woman in her 20s who didn’t sit still until she got very sick and had no choice, then built in her 30s a new way of being with a small amount of caution and a huge effort of will. I see the young woman who marched for human rights and for fair pay and for peace, who thumbed across the province playing coffee houses and had her heart broken on a regular basis by other women who taught her hard lessons. Who finally in her 40s met the woman who would teach her the most and love her like the grownup she tried too many years to avoid becoming. Who helped make heartfelt wishes come true.

I look in the mirror at all of the women I have been and may yet be. I thank my eyes for finally seeing that my body has served me well in spite of  the neglect and the ignorance it has withstood for more than 60 years, the strength and comfort it offers even now; a soft landing if nothing else. 

We are hosting our first guest from the Russian/Ukrainian conflict. At least the first one to make it as far as our house, by way of Armenia, Frankfurt, and Vancouver. Flights of 5, 10, and 6 hrs respectively over a period of 2 days. The place she was waiting in Armenia, where she travelled to get her Covid vaccine in order to travel further, was struck by explosions along the Azerbaijan border the day after she left. Just in time. Our guest is Svetlama, Russian-born but married to a Ukrainian citizen who is currently on the first leg of his long own journey of travel visas and the lottery of permissions.

We are all getting to know one another, and there are many firsts. No language barrier, which was our first surprise, the odd colloquialism notwithstanding. She is the first in our household to test positive for Covid 19, likely picked up through one of her 3 flights, in stressful exhaustion, and in spite of full vaccination. Happily her symptoms are no worse than a mild summer cold, and the rest of the household continues to test negative. She will also heal first thanks to lots of ginger and zinc and juice and extra sleep according to a strange clock. It is her first time to Canada, where she had her first corn fresh on the cob instead of out of a can, and in the course of legal errands, her first taste of the infamous Canadian default of politeness. She is used to a much more direct and often demanding way of communication, and her first impression is that we are as a country, genuinely nice. And, that we have very few fences.

I have been thinking a lot about firsts. All of the firsts someone emigrating to a place they have only heard of must navigate after the physical transportation;  language, customs, rules and expectations that are required just to find a bed for the first night, and that first meal that likely lacks  and of the the comfort food of home. When Svetlana first talked about missing dumplings, we figured out that frozen perogies were our closest approximation. Courtesy of her culinary talents we had our first Russian salad of potatoes and beets and peas in mayonnaise and a concoction of garlic paste on a slice of garden-warm tomato that was easily the best of the new firsts for me.  The very first meal that we cooked together on her first full day was all around a centrepiece of mashed potatoes, the universal comfort food. Our first meeting was through the stutter of a video chat, but it was enough for all of us to feel reassured enough that when the time came, actual airport greetings were almost anticlimactic.  Svetlana’s first coffee on the early morning ride home from the Ottawa airport was of course Tim Horton’s, achieved in her very first drive-through experience.  When My Beloved’s employer R.K. Porter heard about our guest, their first thought was to  help with flight expenses, for which we all are grateful.

One can drive in Canada on a Russian licence for up to 60 days. Who knew?  Road signs and rules are pretty much identical. But one must get Canadian adaptations for things like lap tops and phone chargers to accommodate the differences in household voltage.Oh, and the chance of getting shot or  going  suddenly  missing after voicing a political opinion is pretty low here too.

I haven’t been writing much since I finished my book and sent it off to the publishing houses. I guess I needed a bit of recovery time after such a big project, but also, with all that is going on in the World these past months, I have surprisingly found myself without words so much of the time. 

The words “conflict” and “privilege” have been circling like vultures over carrion in my brain. Each day is so awash in conflicts near and far that some of us are struggling to keep hope afloat . On a global scale, there are so many leaks in humanitarian vessels shot through with hatred and blame that our entire armada of good intentions is sinking, and there’s a blatant, unapologetic pecking order for the distribution of life jackets. Those of us privileged enough to have been born high and dry away from war zones and extreme poverty know we’ve won the geographical lottery, but also feeling helpless as we witness the preventable drowning of innocent people from the relative safety of our protected shores. I have no personal frame of experience and cannot imagine the terror. I have been searching for a way to frame things for myself in order to have faith that we don’t have to be victims of the merciless rip tides of inaction and ignorance.

I have only my own experience to draw on. I grew up in small towns and have chosen to return to that manner of living as I realign my needs and values to try to  prepare for the privilege of aging well.  At no point have I ever had to fear for my life or to fight for it. I have always had some form of a roof, a meal, choices, and resources.

Small towns can sometimes be equated with small-mindedness, but I have seldom found that to be true. It’s harder to hide in a place where people can’t help but see you, and theoretically harder to ignore conflicts and issues right under our neighbourhood noses. If I start to think of the World as one small town, with all of us neighbours by definition, a few familiar comforts begin to return to my mind. Every town has it’s business section, it’s production and manufacturing area, streets that vary from up-scale to down-trodden. There are usually a few places of worship within close proximity to one another, mostly companionable. There is a Town Hall, a Town Council, and a Township infrastructure of individuals who have publicly purported to care enough to make decisions on behalf of the rest of us who’ve elected and/or them. In other words, public commitments, paid and voluntary.

Pick any small town and go have a look around. Stop for lunch, check out the green spaces, look at the general state of things. It’s pretty easy to tell which towns have their stuff together by the way people behave within it. Do the local business owners work together?  Are there a variety of services for kids, elderly, those considered vulnerable or at risk? Are there doctors and dentists and educational opportunities? When there are events, who rolls up their sleeves to make them happen and what kind of “outside” attention do they draw? Where are the cracks in the facade? Is there a “wrong side of the tracks” ?  Do the lower-income neighbourhoods get trees planted and streets paved at the same rate as the business district? Are the townspeople happy to be living there?  What kind of balance has been struck between preservation and innovation, between history and progress?  Who is being left out, left behind, or left to fend for themselves? 

No small town would let their flag fly with gaping holes in it. Nor would they ignore a person who fell on a sidewalk and needed help getting up and getting home. If there were illegalities transpiring in the alley behind the bank after dark, floodlights would be installed and local law enforcement would be checking in. When a small town succeeds, it’s because those who live there are not wiling to let it fail, and they can’t help but see when it shows signs of doing so. Small town people make a choice to invest in themselves and in one another by taking some responsibility for those things they share, whatever challenges may arise. They usually do it for two reasons: because they can’t ignore what they have to face every day, and because they want to be a part of something bigger; have a sense of place. 

Well...what if we were to think of this World as one small town and stop pretending we can turn a blind eye to the atrocities endured by our neighbours?  What if, instead of shutting off the news when it becomes too overwhelmingly painful to watch, we look instead for exactly those things that make it so painful; the commonalities of humanity, the fear, the loss, the reality that none of us ever gets through life without help. What if we remember that we are more alike than different, that things are not really “way over there” but right here in the  neighbourhood we hope will sustain us? 

It’s not a solution. But neither is war. Or blame. Or the privilege of distance.

The small town where we live is finding all kinds of ways to support families from  Ukraine having to flee as their small towns are being destroyed. Yard sales, free-cycle forums, job offers, transportation, housing, and  health services.  Small towns all over the place are opening their doors and their minds to people who are living through what all of us fear; the tyranny and violence wrought by someone else who feels entitled to seize any home, any town, any sense of place. By those whose drive is only to conquer instead of cooperate, and who feel threatened by the interdependent success of the people of all the  small towns and the all of the incredible resources they hold. 

As grateful as I am to be alive amid the chaos, smugly assuming that the extremes of my youth have smoothed into sweetness, this is still a painful and poignant time of life. The losing of one’s contemporaries increases in frequency and immediacy, and a certain sense of mortality permeates those quiet moments upon both waking and at the cliff of sleep. 

It is so important to celebrate the gift of having been touched by people, of lives intersected at unsubtle crossroads like the “X” on a treasure map. It is also critical that we take time to acknowledge the scars left by loss or impending loss of those same spirits in whose company we grew, laughed, and were challenged. So many types of loss to consider; the death of a parent, a teacher, a neighbour, a co-worker, perhaps a sibling or a spouse. It is the loss of a contemporary resonates perhaps most deeply in it’s proximity to our own state of being. 

I am in a very old and somewhat sprawling house; staircases and corridors and funny little rooms on multiple levels. It appears to have been quite grand in it’s day. The house has not been much lived in for some time as curtains are mostly closed and furniture is either draped or missing or dishevelled in some way. It’s very dim and slightly claustrophobic but also intriguing. I wander from place to place at random, just trying to figure out the layout but it seems I have been here before as nothing I encounter comes as a surprise. There is a familiarity, a kind of remembering as a stroll from room to room, poking my head in just to see what has changed or stands out in any way. At some point I begin to climb a series of stairwells. As I get higher, the stairs become less ornate, steeper, narrower and  a bit unnerving. At last, I reach the very top of the stairs. There is no more hand-railing, and a sheer drop into nothingness on all sides. If I stand on tiptoe I can see into the attic space above me. It is a huge open room surrounded by windows and full of warm sunlight. It is clean and fresh and has polished wood floors, but no furniture that I can see, just lots and lots of open space.  I know it is a beautiful room and I want very much to go in to it. The problem is that to do so I need to make a physical leap, upwards and across the chasm of nothingness that surrounds the top step I am standing on. The entrance hatch to the attic room is fairly small and I am concerned that even if I make the leap and catch the rim, I will either not have the arms strength to pull myself up and through or I won’t even fit through the opening itself as I have gained such weight. So I stand there. Weighing the odds. Wanting to jump but terrified of falling. Feeling like there are no other alternatives between leaping and trusting myself, or turning back and never knowing what I might find. I can even feel warm soft breezes coming through the opening, like a caress against my face. It is so inviting, I am so tempted, but I remain standing on one narrow stair above the distinct possibility of death or at least great pain should I move the wrong way. I am tired. I am yearning to try, but afraid I won’t make it through that opening into what I know is an incredible space of freedom and light.

I have been slowly, layer by layer, peeling away my own haz mat suit. I worked hard putting on all of that armour damn it, only to discover that to learn anything at all, I had to undo all of the rusted-shut seams and take the thing off. In doing so, I’ve come face to face with the terror of having absolutely nothing between me and the real world. Yikes. 

Brene Brown maintains that mid-life is an unravelling and what must take the place of that armour is curiosity. Fine, I get that. But the blue plate special of curiosity, (served at 5pm each day now that we are older,) comes with a generous side-dish of potentially paralysing “what-if?”. It’s the odd-looking potato salad we didn’t ask for, next to the fresh juicy burger we’ve been craving. How long has it been sitting in the fridge? What if it’s bad, the mayo is off, it’s made of yesterday’s mashed potatoes dressed up to look legit? It has the potential to spoil the whole meal, so perhaps its best to just avoid it altogether.  Unless.., what if I am missing the best potato salad ever?

If I am honest, I have been “what-if-ing” my way into safe corners for years already, so what if  “what-if” just doesn’t work anymore? What if “what-if” became something else like: “what now?” or “what’s next?” or “what’s new?”

I have watched my Beloved unravel an entire sock she has just finished knitting because there was something about it she felt she needed do better.  I actually gasped out loud the first time I saw her do it, as all I saw was the hours of beautiful work destroyed in about 3 minutes. She just grinned at me, shrugged her shoulders and explained she wouldn’t be able to wear the sock if it didn’t fit properly, so she would simply try again. The only “knitting” I have ever learned to do resulted in chain-mail; protective, flexible to a point, and awfully  heavy to wear full time. It took years of hyper-vigilance to construct, and will take conscious effort as well as time to unravel. Good grief, what if I am naked underneath ?

I’m 60 this year and just applied for my Canada Pension, early. I don’t know where or if I will even be here at 65 which is the usual time to apply. But, mostly self-employed and living simply, I figure I will take what’s offered now and enjoy whatever little extra it amounts to . Too many of my contemporaries are already gone, and I am determined to enjoy the remaining slope of my journey, whether it’s 5 years or 35 years. The subtle creeping question of how I want to live going forward has accelerated into a cosmic swat upside my head...which includes figuring out how I got here in the first place. Each link of that chain mail costume I’ve worn way too long represents a what-if and a calculated risk. Early trauma in my life led me to do one of two things in almost every situation: armour up in self-defence, or attempt to dance on a tightrope woven from delicate filaments of hope. Both of those involved steely resolve. Neither turned out to be risk-free. It is as possible to die in a cage of your own making as it is to take a leap of faith, and fall. I am terrified of both. But the periods of inertia, when I chose to do nothing at all, to cower quietly until the moment passed were where I think I lost the most.

The armour I built has served me very very well, gotten me through some painful times, held me upright when my knees buckled, allowed me to lend my arm as an escort along someone else’s journey, kept me from burning whenever I was forced to dash through flames. But while I was protected from the fire I was also untouched by other wonderful things, like unconditional love, like spontaneity, like being fully present without expectation. Loop by rusted loop, I find I am undoing the knots of fear in hopes of the spontaneous risks of being fully real. I feel like Pinnochio finally understanding the futility of his own fibs. 

Most of my life has in fact been quite wonderful. But as a small child my body was violated so many times that even now, that is where my emotions will express themselves. In those moments of violation, my mind learned to remove itself, but my body took in all of the pain and the terror and the shame; they grew roots in my belly that spread and strangled and clenched my brow, my jaw, my muscles and my lungs. It is my body that betrays me when something awakens the echoes of terror, and the shame of being publicly vulnerable often keeps me away from opportunities to grow and learn. That indefatigable something in each child that saves them from collapsing despair was in me transformed to rage and stored in my organs, roaring forth in explosive moments of rebellion, retreating to simmer in it’s own vicious juices until the next time. On rare occasions it can still happen, even now.  For many years I have understood this process, intellectually at least. But now at 60, the time has come to speak with that enraged and fearful child, unwrap her from her layers of survivalist gear, bathe her clean in unpolluted waters and hold her gently, not too tight, even as she struggles, until she can safely remember how to forgive herself the most of all.

There is something to be said for the “fake it ‘till you make it” strategy, but as life grows shorter and our time too precious to waste energy in just endurance, our masks grow cumbersome and we tire of wearing them.  We divest ourselves of outworn clothing, outworn ideas, excess tasks and trinkets...why not of the behaviours that served us well and are thankfully no longer critical? If we’ve held our both breath and our tongue in order to be polite, make a living, to get through the milestones of adulthood until now, wouldn’t it be good to free them too? Even knowing that sometime, in spite of our best efforts, shit will still happen anyway.

If we are lucky enough to make it to mid-life and rediscover the luxury of choice, we’ve earned a chance to figure out who we really are. We are not our achievements or our mistakes though they certainly contribute to what is left when we distil them to their simplest form. And with that nugget of purity, what shall we do?

I’ve spent a career in helping to create safe spaces for others; through adjunct social services, recreation, volunteering, human resources, and the respectful body work practices I continue now. I have been subconsciously driven to ensure that I would never cause anyone else to be frightened or feel threatened or unsafe in any way. I would offer  support to the extent of my abilities. We tend to choose ( when we can) those jobs which we ourselves will most benefit from, rarely understanding that until we’ve retired from them. Ergo; I’ve spent many many years finding safety and support myself, through trying to extend it to others. To some degree, it has worked. I’ve had the fortune to have met quite a few folks who think similarly, usually because of how they coped with their own traumas. We are sensitive to those who have not had the luxury of choice and who have become stuck in the endless loop of disappointments, knowing that something is missing but not what or how to find it, and endlessly acting out in the name of survival. No judgements. And at the time of life that our bodies begin to remind us that they are in need of more care, more patience , we are forced to slow down, sift through our bag of tricks, and realise the only person we have ever really fooled is ourselves. Which we often don’t need, or even want, to do anymore.

I liken it in some ways to skinny dipping of a summer’s evening; we arrive at the water’s edge dusty from our labours, weary of the journey, in need of a rest and a respite. Before we can get into the water, we have to look around as we worry about who might be watching...we have to get beyond the self-consciousness of our imperfect bodies, that we have aged, living and gravity have taken over,and we might even smell a little funky under our well-worn public personas. Might  somebody steal our clothes when we aren’t looking thinking they are being helpful and hilarious at the same time? And then there’s the lake (stream/river/ocean/waterfall, your choice) itself? What lies beneath the surface? Is it deep? Is it cold? Do we even remember how to swim? Will we be able to make it back to shore once we take the plunge? 

But there it is, right at our feet....a gorgeous expanse of water, perhaps lit dramatically by a setting sun and a rising moon (insert naked joke here) looking so...tempting. It’s quiet but for the breeze and the night birds. It’s just us and an opportunity. There’s nothing in there that wants anything to do with a skinny-dipping human being, and they will happily keep their distance until we are done. It’s so worth the risk for that luscious feeling of freedom, the unencumbered , gentle sluicing away of effort and cares and worries, bodily buoyed by the power of the water as you move through it however you need to, until it’s time to float on your back and watch the stars come out. And release all the held breaths.

For the past 17 days we have had 13 little chicks in a brooder on our kitchen table. They came to us as day-olds  and will be ready to start laying by early September. We ordered 12 but got a spare, so a true Baker’s Dozen from Baker’s Feeds in Forfar. 

**(Last year, Bakers provided our ready-to-lay pullets, absolutely wonderful birds who unfortunately fell prey to a weasel on xmas morning 2020. It was grim and a hard lesson. The coop has since been reinforced with 1/4 inch hardware mesh, all 4 walls plus the ceiling and the window. We’ve also fashioned a sliding trap door from a metal baking sheet that should provide greater security from predators. The floor is concrete. We hope we are better prepared for this second flock).

When they arrived, these marshmallow-sized balls of fuzz all together could have perched in both my hands. 17 days later they are easily the size of robins, have lost much of their fuzz and have been sprouting spiky little red feathers from their shoulders and tails, looking quite steampunk teenager-y.  When they are fully feathered they will be Lucille Ball-type redheads, just like their predecessors. At the moment they are a funky combination of yellow, beige, brown and rust, with comb-overs quickly filling in. Their feet went from the tiniest of twigs to outright clodhoppers and they’ve each lost their egg tooth to a fiercely pointed and very greedy little beak. They are curious and hilarious little divas who see my Beloved and I as their personal chambermaids and vending machines. They will eat from our hands which is nice and don’t mind being handled for a couple of minutes at a time.Little gold coloured combs, like tiny tiaras are beginning to poke from their foreheads and I would not be surprised to see  ruby slippers any day now, except that would be mixing my movie metaphors.

Anywho, like any offspring outgrowing the nest, we transported them to their new destination complete with the comforts of home and some snacks to tide them over.They will need their heat lamp for a couple more weeks yet and the box bed they have been sleeping in has made the journey with them, except the sides are down now so they can come and go in their much larger space, access the big feeder and waterer while their baby-sized ones are still within reach. If we could have sent them off with 13 little teddy bears, we would have. I will miss being greeted by a peeping choir every morning as I make coffee and they sing themselves awake. I will miss hearing their voices change and become downright conversational as their vocabulary expands. I will miss watching them mature almost by the hour as I come and go in my day. I will miss watching my Beloved coo over them when she comes through the door long before the dog and I rate any attention. I will not miss the extraordinary amount of dust in the house from them kicking through wood chips and throwing their feed at one another. When we could sit in the living room and watch the particles regularly fly up and over the 2 foot sides of their box, we knew it was time. It was like watching a cartoon we have to clean up after. There’s a fine layer of chick-kickage throughout the house that will take a week to remove. And of course, we would do it all again, maybe.

Watching these adolescent girlies explore their new digs was a hoot in itself. They turned one flap of the cardboard brooder into a slide, skittering up the ramp and wee-ing their way back down to plop-land in a couple of inches of soft sweet pine shavings. They basked, turning their faces up towards the thin sunlight coming through their window, filling their little chests with the new scents of fresh-mowed grass and garden soil. They looked back and forth at one another as if to say; “Huh...cool beans!” and then skittered to their tiny roost under the heat lamp at the noise of me moving the metal ladder after making a final adjustment to the cord for their lamp. 

I didn’t even see it coming.

There I was squinting to see through a windshield, wipers at full speed, trying to maintain enough distance from big cargo vehicles spraying the rest of us as they ran through huge puddles, turning the music down so I could see better through the hammering rain, when it hit me.

Like somebody took a child’s bubble-wand and gently blew opalescent chuckles through my veins, my body underwent a happy little wriggle from top to toe and I found myself smiling ear to ear. Just this...random burst of joy. Out of no where.

I have no idea what caused it. Perhaps the buds on the trees busting out everywhere along the roadside. Maybe it was the music I was singing along to in the cab of the truck. Could be it was the smooth ride of brand new summer tires just put on yesterday, or the pepper steaks a friend at the grocery store asked the butcher to fresh cut for me. It might have been the nasty vaccine hangover symptoms that had already faded into memory, or the knowledge that I will shortly be training for an enjoyable new job. The pink potted hydrangeas? The constant chirpy cacophany of 9-day-old chicks at home on the kitchen table ? The little pond filling up with rain, in the front yard where we dug out all the bamboo? Maybe a combination of cheerful check-in notes from friends and the plan to make nachos for supper. and the promise of some sunshine on the weekend when I will be playing outside. My loved ones are safe and sound and there is a future full of sweet little to-dos on my list.

Dexter the Labradoofus and I took our morning walk at 6:30 am as per usual. We only go 3-4 kilometers at a time now as both of us have ageing knees that do better and get stronger in short bursts of activity spread throughout our day.

It is that rare time of year when plant life is about to burst from behind the curtain of encouraging rains and lengthening days. As we walked, a rising tide of murmurs came from the woods and fields around us; soft lowing of cows ready to be milked, crows declaring their territory and tree buds popping in a sound not dissimilar to the dramatic pout of an impatient child. We became slowly more sodden in a gentle steady rain, my glasses fogged enough to finally be consigned to a pocket in my bright yellow raincoat, Dexter flicking droplets from the tip of his casually swaying but ever-vigilant tail. It’s a soft morning, the dreamy kind, tempting to just curl into a corner with a good book and a hot drink and consider the delicious benefits of a self-indulgent nap.

Returning home, I pour my coffee and check my emails. Among them I find one a friend has sent; a series of cartoons and photos with funny captions. The very first one makes me smile broadly. It’s a photo of two empty Wonderbread bags laying on a wooden counter and the caption reads:  “For Sale: Vintage Boot Liners”. In primary school in the early 60s, many of us wore ugly mud brown galoshes, the kind we tugged on over top of our walking shoes and folding the rubber tops sideways, buckled over our ankles. They were hot and awkward and a pain to pull on and off. The tops chafed against legs unless pant cuffs were tucked in to provide a buffer. At some point those rubbers would get snagged on barbed wire as we hopped a fence, and they’d spring a leak. We’d come home with a “soaker” and the next morning at breakfast be greeted with the sight of an empty bread bag tucked into the top of each waiting boot. Ironically, sticking your foot into your shoe, shoe into a bread bag and bread bag into the boot actually went more  smoothly than without the bag. The problem was that unless the boot fit just so, your shoe now slid around as you walked. The bread bag inside a rubber became hot and sticky and sweaty, causing even more slippage and we struggled to accommodate the extra movement by almost skating with each step. In the cloak room at school, every third kid had those bread bag sandwiched feet at some point or another and we understood when somebody would kick their boots off with a sigh of relief and a stretching of damp toes. We all knew to turn the bread bags inside out to dry before recess, just as we knew to fold and save the waxed paper and the brown bags that held our lunch sandwiches. With luck, new boots would arrive on payday, however if the school year was nearly over and your feet were growing like the weeds in the ditch, often the decision was made to simply “make-do” for another month or two.