Silent Success

The cool winds of November keep us company now, flakes of snow filtering down slowly in the mornings to rest among the feathery veins of frost on the windshield, waiting for the sun to finally rise and melt them back in the low light of day.   If we’re lucky the temperature will creep close to freezing and maybe even above by mid afternoon, and every day now without snow that stays, is a success.

Remembrance Day is once again behind us – that sober, somber day of duty, when life stops and we silently say thank you to those who died years ago fighting wars on the other side of the world; the poppies and Memorial Services the least we can do to honor those valiant young souls who went willingly, never to return.  The bugler’s call of The Last Post summons the departed soldier’s spirits back to the cenotaph, where the gun salutes on either end of the 2 minutes of silence punctuate the eerie quiet before The Rouse awakens our hearts again to the present  - but we linger and hold the past for awhile longer, each of us acknowledging in our own way that we truly understand the sacrifices.

We’re fortunate to live in the time and place that we do – we know this deeply, and our blinding ignorance of the past most days is a testament to how far away we really are from those dark days.  We’re a prosperous society and we live like Kings; drunk with riches and endless opportunity, fancying ourselves important and powerful as we consume our way through life, still ignoring the plight of the underclass, tempting Fate yet again.   The lessons of history laid bare await us still – but we think if we ignore them just a little bit longer, then perhaps their truths will not apply.

We’ve become masters of this.

I’m wrapping up a project for clients who have become friends – the way most of my clients do – thanks in no small part to my need and ability to connect to the people around me, and for my work to have meaning it must be meaningful to those who will use it and have it be a part of their reality.  I’m learning this has always been my way, though I have either chosen to ignore this fact or had never been awakened to it until recently, in whatever medium I am ‘working.’  A sense of purpose I suppose – something we all aspire to have in our lives – many searching for it in deep recesses of the soul or in dark corners of the heart – many looking in places they fear it may never exist – many more having not found it seek replacements to sooth the aching emptiness.  Others give up and pretend they never needed meaning in their lives from the beginning, content to follow blindly, and patiently wait for their eternal rewards.

I’ve searched ever since I was old enough to understand and question that there might be more to what I saw around me – that all things were not what they appeared and deeper connections and hidden realities existed if you dared look beyond the obvious.  Creative minds do this naturally after all, taking ideas of things that do not yet exist and finding ways to make the impossible possible.  Asking ‘why not?’ along with ‘why?’ then moving toward the ideas with conviction and purpose.  In the creative world nothing is impossible and solutions to problems wait to be revealed – one only has to ask the right questions.

As my current project winds down and I look back over the details and creative solutions that happened to fall into our plans I am comforted by the process that works the way it does and provides what it does for those around me.  I’m given credit for results that happen to find me as often, it seems, as I search for them, and I humbly acknowledge my part in the process but am by no means comfortable taking credit for the results.  I am merely fortunate to be in the right place at the right time.

Writing comes to me in much the same way – if I am able to get of my own way things flow much more effortlessly than if I pretend I am the powerful author of the words on the page.  It helps if I can find the quiet spaces that nurture the process – for me those tend to be found in the wee hours on either end of the day – leaving few of those hours for sleep some nights – though I am also slowly realizing that those quiet spaces are also available to you during the most chaotic busy times – if you have the courage to stand silently inside and accept them.  I’m making a mental note to stand silently inside more often – I need much more practice in this area!  And oddly enough Life keeps providing opportunities for practice…

I am very thankful to have had the opportunity to work with my current clients and have enjoyed being allowed into their lives as I worked to create something of lasting value for them.  A mutual benefit of shared experience.  And really, that’s what I’ve always been searching for – and like my writing, once I stop fighting it; stop searching for it, it becomes obvious that it has always been there with me all along. 

True prosperity isn’t measured in dollars and cents or found in one’s possessions – no matter how drunk we are with material wealth – deep down it becomes obvious that the measure of one’s success is found within – by how willing one is to silently stop and listen to the reality surrounding them, allowing the connections to others to ground them and sustain them, secure in the knowledge that solutions and results exist to be found, regardless of the magnitude of the perceived problem. 

I stopped for 2 minutes this past week and listened to the eerie silence, paying my respects to those who paid the ultimate price so that I may live where and how I do, able to help others as I help myself, all moving forward together.    Theirs was a bloody hell compared to the troubles and problems we face today – yet they had the courage to stand and fight, the will to battle to the very end.  The least we can do is awaken to the reality that we have it easy by comparison. 

It’s November and we still have no snow.  That’s one measure of success.  I’m fortunate and grateful for the connections and people in my life who have allowed me to become a part of theirs, and who allow me to do what I do, to be who I am. For me? That’s a much truer measure of success.

Cold November Morning

The sunlight is streaming in low this morning; highlighting the frost on the rooftops even more than usual, calling attention to the contrast and cementing the fact that summer is slowly fading from sight in the rearview mirror.  The arrival of November and tonight’s time change should have been enough notice, but we’ve been busy and the days have slipped past quickly and silently and now we have a moment to take stock and really see where we are.

Where I haven’t been is here, sitting, writing, watching my world as an observer, keeping notes and finding my connection to all things around me.  The reasons are as habitual as they are numerous, but the end result has been a quiet dis-ease that slowly rolls and simmers just enough below the surface to be unremarkable, yet high enough to ripple through at times and call attention to my absence.

I looked back the other day and noticed the last real post I set here for you was Bert’s eulogy post; that’s not the kind of finality I want to leave anywhere just laying around - the trip report installments didn’t feel ‘right’ beside that and so they have since vanished by my hand – they aren’t really where I wanted this to go anyway and so I decided to retract them and let them live where and how they do for me, for us, and they will serve me well there. 

Here I need to be more complete, more grounded, more real – questioning and rambling as I do to make sense of things – this is what I find I crave when I allow life to overtake me rather than being an active participant.  I need to be present in the process – I’d argue we all do – though I’m becoming more convinced that fewer and fewer understand how to do that anymore or why it is crucial to our existence and growth and shared, mutual experience.  It’s a thought I’m keeping active on the back burner for the next little while – a seed of sorts that I hope to germinate with some quiet time and water with further insight and study – and we’ll watch what fertile, green shoots sprout forth over the winter.

Life is changing again – intuitively I know this winter will be something new, something testing me and pushing me in directions I will resist and fight against – my stubborn nature resorting to what it knows best as it attempts to maintain its own reality intact, separate from my true reality – and I will work my way through it and emerge on the other side more complete and with a better understanding of how and why this is supposed to work – this backwardly experienced lesson we are all expected to learn eventually, but are never really prepared for.

The kittens have grown to full cat size now, busy with the intruders who have moved in under the backyard decks, those underground architects of various interconnected holes and tunnels taunting the felines from beneath their feet.  We had to put down the oldest of the three earlier this fall – at17 he reached his wintertime with grace and nobility, still active and alert and in charge – but the body (as they are wont to do) was beginning to give way and fail him and so we made the difficult decision for him and allowed him one last afternoon in the sun and in the flowerbeds before his fate. 

It’s been that kind of year for us. 

And maybe that’s why I’m been away when I really should have been here more.  Maybe I’ve been busy keeping busy, pretending the reality isn’t always just a little bit away over there, hidden enough in plain sight to be familiar, yet distant enough to be forgotten.  Maybe I didn’t have much to say – or maybe I wasn’t ready to say it – or maybe I didn’t know what it was I needed to say. Maybe I’ve been silently waiting to feel ready again, moved to the point where forward is the only way remaining.  Maybe…

The maybes are beginning to unravel themselves into a pile of words at my feet. 

A jumbled collection of ideas and places; fragments of truths and remembrances that need to be knit back into form and given structure so they can stand alone again.  Woven together to embrace and warm me in the cold months ahead as I plow back into life, ready to begin the required heavy lifting and excavation that has become my journey.  Wrapped around and held close on those cold, dark mornings when the shadows and silence surround and sit formless in wait. Worn to protect and comfort me when the light of day retreats, leaving only a flickering flame to guide me.

The sun is higher now, but that frost doesn’t look like it’s ready to release its hold on the rooftops any time soon. We can’t deny it any longer, the cold is settling in.  I’d better get knitting…

Words of Remembrance for Mother in Law

In this life you don't always get to choose how things play out.  And you never know what the future holds.  For us, 2013 has been one of those years that you won't soon forget - and so far it's been for sad, unfortunate, unplanned reasons.  Almost exactly 3 months after my writing and presenting my mom's eulogy at her funeral service, Karen's mom suddenly passed away after a quick battle with liver cancer and I find myself again looking back at a life into which I had the honour of being accepted.

Here are the words I shared at her service yesterday:

Alberta Elaine Bomak (1942-2013)

As long as we have memories, yesterday remains

As long as we have hope, tomorrow waits

And as long as there is Friendship, today is Beautiful

You will be hard pressed to find a better quote to sum up the way Bert saw and approached life.  She was the family historian; the keeper of the stories of the past, of the memories of yesterday. She was the eternal optimist who always saw the bright side; whose glass was always half full and who never ever let the obstacles of life get her down.  And she was a true friend to all who crossed her path; dedicated and faithful and compassionate and giving - her laugh and her smile brightened every room she entered, and all who knew her were better for the experience.

Born in Dauphin and raised in the Duck Mountains for the first 10 years, Bert nurtured the qualities that would guide her for her lifetime.  Surrounded by the abundance and beauty of nature, she fostered a deep appreciation for all living things, and found joy and beauty in even the simplest wild flower. 

Her green thumb came naturally then, and was always on display in her yard and garden in Dauphin.  Bert could spend the entire day out weeding and tending and nurturing her plants and flowers, and often did, visiting with and chatting to neighbors, themselves knee-deep in their backyard gardens.

Theres an honesty and goodness that can only be found in conversations with your fellow man, shared while each is busy with the grounded earthiness of planting, weeding and harvesting.  And Bert had that honesty and goodness in spades.

The Britcher lumber camp and sawmill also imprinted young Alberta with the essential qualities of the value of hard work and the necessity of cooperation and generosity for success in any endeavor.  The lumber business could be brutal, hard work, and it demanded strong, willing hearts and minds in order to survive and prosper, and those hearts and minds needed to be well feed and watered.  Feeding and looking after a bush camp is not for the timid or shy, and Bert carried those lessons into her family life in Dauphin.

Anyone who had the pleasure of joining Tony and Bert for meals or parties at their home on 7th Ave can attest to how easy Bert made it seem to feed an entire neighbourhood; how effortlessly she would add more plates to an already overcrowded table and make room for unexpected guests - and always Bert would give up her spot at the table for you, disappearing downstairs and quickly reappearing with more food and dainties from the freezer; complete meals in minutes, always more than enough.

And baking! Pies and cookies and desserts and dainties - she was always baking and freezing and taking trays of goodies to events and occasions.  Award winning recipes that we will forever miss, never quite able to perfect her methods just the way she did.  Like her lemon merengue pie or her cinnamon buns... And if she wasn't baking she was canning - fruits and vegetables and pickles - the shelves in the cold room overflowing with the abundance of the summer garden, and enjoyed during those long, cold winter months.

Bert loved people, and people loved Bert.  She carried a ready smile and a quick laugh and always had a story to share!  She knew her family's stories back to the Mayflower and Admiral Dewey, and was never lost for a date or a place that an event took place, and she could tell you what the weather was like that early March morning back in '52 and what they served for dinner, and who sat where around the table, and what the conversation was about that night...

But it wasn't only her family's stories she told or knew - she seemed to know everyone  and was related to half of them, and she knew all the generations and who was related to whom and how and she knew their stories too.  She knew your stories better than you did!  And when she told those stories her eyes would light up with a brightness and life that seemed to carry her on for hours, and her laugh would fill the room and she soon had everyone laughing with her. 

Her home was a warm, inviting place for all, and together with Tony they welcomed family, friends and neighbours to come in and join them and have a drink and something to eat and share some laughs and enjoy the company of others.  Any occasion was cause for a get together - the 7th Avenue crowd never needed an excuse to get together - but it was the same for Church friends, or work friends, or family friends, and more often than not, those groups began to overlap and in the end all became just good friends.

And with her, through her, all our yesterdays remained.

But as much as Bert had our yesterdays preserved, it was her outlook on life and her version of tomorrow that really defined her life. 

She was always cheery and optimistic, expecting the best and shrugging off the worst, selectively ignoring advice and information if it didnt suit her version of how things were going to be.  Happy and smiling and seemingly always in a good mood, she met life head on and kept winning the battles thrown her way.  Her health was always a concern and while she didnt always follow her doctors (or her daughter's) medical orders to a tee, her positive outlook carried her far further than maybe it should have.  It's a trait we all should consider adopting.

  

The Church played a large role in Bert's faith in the goodness and certainty of tomorrow and it played a large part in her daily life.  Tony and Bert were active members of the church, and Bert learned enough Ukrainian to be able to follow along to mass without much difficulty.  Her baking graced many a table in this hall, and as a fitting tribute, it will grace some of the tables here today as well...

Bert always had plans for tomorrow.  Places to go, friends to see, someone in the hospital to visit, something to take baking too, a trip to Winnipeg to see her doctors...

No time to worry or regret, too busy looking forward.

And then there were her todays, always filled with friendship and love; her life a beautiful, fragrant, bouquet, and each of you, all of you her friends, a unique and perfect flower in that bouquet. If Bert gave you her word, that was all you needed.  If she said she'd get it done, it got done.  It was that way at the Town office and then again at the RM office, you knew you could always count on Bert.   In return she trusted everyone with a prairie honesty and trust that still meant something, and beneath all that was a loving mutual respect for everyone she encountered.  She'd give you all she had if you needed it more than she did, and would never ask for anything in return.

To all of you who consider yourself a friend of Bert's, Karen and I would like to thank you  for helping make her life full and complete.

To Bert, friends were friends forever, and none was more dear to her heart than her true love Tony.  They may have seemed an improbable match, but in reality they were a perfect one, and together they cared and shared with each other and gave of themselves to all who knew them.  Tony's passing affected Bert deeply, but she knew she still had so much more to give and live for. 

The greatest joy of Bert and Tony's life, Karen shared an amazing relationship with Bert a bond between mother and daughter that transcended friendship and family to a much higher plane, and I can see so much of Bert's wisdom and quiet influence in Karen and how she responds to life, in how she parents, and how she treats others.   A mother's lasting legacy lives on in her daughter, and Bert you did an amazing job.

One man though captured Bert's heart like none other, and he had her wrapped around his little finger from day one.  Bert loved Riley completely and truly, and lived to have him happy and smiling - I cannot begin to tell you how many hundreds of dozens of cookies and brownies and desserts she made for him over the years; the lengths she went to ensure he would always remember Tony, or the number of games she played with him regardless of her medical condition or level of fitness.  And in return he loved her fiercely and loyally and grew up guided by her love and support and her character.

The usual summer routine of Karen and Riley visiting and staying with Bert for a few weeks while Riley took swimming lessons, Riley helping Ba in the garden, his little boy voice still on her answering machine... Those days left a real impression on him and again, I can see alot of Bert in him too.

While going through things at the house, Karen and I found a letter written by Bert, for Riley, to be read when he turned 18 - one of those time capsule Letter to the Future things, and it seems appropriate to share with all of you today, in Bert's own words, her advice for Riley:

Dear Riley,

When your mother was born we thought it was the happiest day of our life, but when you were born we were even happier.  We love you dearly and will enjoy all the days we spend with you as you grow up.  The following is some words of wisdom given to me by my Aunt Gertrude on Sept 27, 1962 (I was 20 years old.)

"Use what talents you possess.  The woods would be a silent place if no birds sang there except those that sang the best.  Laugh and the whole world laughs with you.  In marriage it is not as important to marry the right person as to be the right partner."

I hope that you will be to your Dad and Mom what your mother is to us.  She was a joy to raise, was very considerate and loving and gave us many reasons to be proud of her.  Especially the good mother that she has been to you.

My advice to you Riley is the same as what I gave your mother: Do in life what you want to do.  Not what your parents or other people expect or want you to do, and you will always be happy.

Love Ba and Gigi

Friends and family.  They were the cornerstone of Bert's everyday life, and ensured that for her each day was beautiful.

On March 15th, 1942, Alberta Elaine Britcher was born and the world would become a better place.  On June 19th, 2013, Bert Bomak peacefully passed away, and the world will never be the same.

* * *

Rest in Peace Bert, Thanks for Everything.

Until the skies darken again

good days are easy,

unappreciated usually,

overlooked at best. 

until you need them,

then they are harder to pin down,

to find, to hold.

but if you let them

they can find you,

you just need to sit still

and let them approach you,

on their own,

like a timid small animal

alone.

make another cup of coffee

soothe the soul

and take it to the sunshine

and dewy grass

watch the world

exploring green shadows

listen to the birds

and the wind and the sounds of another

new summer starting

forget the grey and cloudy

skies behind you

for awhile

until the thunder

rumbling, rolling explodes with fury

rage on fire.

weather the storm

and contain the damage

keep the peace and stay the course

deluded reason and inward focus

cannot be subdued

drenched and shaking

the blood runs cold

and exhausted energy

soon lets go

giving way to lingering stillness

until the skies darken again

Renewal and Change: Time to tackle the crap

Somehow it became June.  Not that middle of June with the beginning intensity of summer that lasts until late September; this year early June is more like late May with fruit trees still in bloom, flowers finally daring to stand proudly in the gardens and the true feeling of the change of season turning the corner at last.

The greenhouses are doing brisk business these days as the winter-dwellers emerge to rediscover the outdoors and attempt to reclaim their mastery over the landscape. Trucks are busy delivering yards of black earth and soil and decorative bark and stone as yards begin their yearly transformation and the streets are lined on garbage day with paper bags full of the trimmings and prunings and remains of last year ready to be composted into next year.

The ceremony of renewal and change has begun.

It’s June and up here that means the final days of school are underway, exams and graduations and the cleaning up of another school year before the halls fall silent for a few months.  Stressful times for some – those ending this particular chapter of their lives and embarking on the next – and less so for others – those who have a few more years to go until they too wear the cap and gown and pretend they’re ready to take on the challenges of Life, though these years of high school present enough opportunities for drama and intrigue to fill an entire season of Hallmark after school specials.

We should know, but that’s a story (or a book) for another time…

Somehow April and May got away from us, well that’s not entirely true – it’s just that they were filled with circumstances and events that caused time and place to shift as required in order to achieve some semblance of balance and order – but now suddenly time has passed and we stand looking back as we catch our breath and realize nothing stands still ‘out there’ regardless of what’s happening ‘in here.’

I’ve been busy the last few days cleaning out the old garage and establishing a plan for the new one – figuring out where everything will go and how it needs to look in order to provide us with optimal storage and functionality going forward.  This has been in the works since the new addition was constructed and closed in – but it isn’t a process that can be rushed or quickly designed – at least not for me – there is an organic, natural way I inhabit a space that takes time to fully appreciate and understand exactly how I interact with it and how it needs to be for me to feel centered and at home in the space.  I require time to use it in its barest sense to get comfortable and familiar before making lasting change.  I suspect we all have this trait though many are more able to adapt freely to their environments than I, or they don’t have the luxury of time to sort such things out. 

The old garage has been my space since we moved in here back in ’95 and it has grown and changed in nature and purpose to suit our needs and my needs as I have changed and demanded more or less from it in exchange.  From simple storage and basic, crude workshop space with a handful of simple, cheap tools that managed to turn out the early storage cabinetry and carpentry skills for a young married couple finding their way as homeowners; to a more finely tuned and focused workspace with specialized, professional tools that allowed a business to grow and provide for a young family; and then to an injured, quieter, shadow of its former self, at the ready should it be called into service, but slowly hidden behind a veneer of bigger more pressing projects and demands, and requiring dedicated time and motivation to return it to a state of workability.

As I sifted through the shelves and cupboards and laid the contents out in the bigger, newer confines, I felt an inner rawness that comes with taking stock of what you have and really looking at it to assess its value and appropriateness for you and whether it will serve you moving forward, deciding if it should stay or if it’s time to say goodbye.

Stuff accumulates and gets piled up in corners and behind things without you realizing it, even though you see it every day.  Easier to keep it just because, than to have to take the time to really decide what it is and why you have it and what to do with whatever-it-is.  Easier to stay with the tried and true than the new and unknown.

But we need to make room for the new and improved while still carrying the old and trusted with us, though it requires patience and dedication to the task, and a careful, honest eye to accurately measure the needs and wants and balance them with the available size and space and time and energy.  You can’t do this for someone else – you can guide him or her and assist them and lend a hand, but they have to do the heavy lifting themselves.  They have to own the stuff in question or the real decisions can’t be made about what it means and what to do with it.  That can be a painful process.  Layers of dust and time settle on our stuff and our attachment to things can become tied to feelings over time instead of the concrete objectivity that once existed.

Ignoring the stuff might be easier in the short term – it doesn’t hurt if you don’t have to dig in and take stock, right?

Maybe.  For a little while, sure.  But not in the long term.  In order to free yourself from the disquieting chaos you’ve ignored in there over time, you have to finally decide to wade in and get real about things.  And that means you are going to get dusty and dirty and you will have to fully commit to creating a new dynamic with yourself.  You can’t just pull out all the stuff you have in that old garage and blow the dust off and tidy up the piles and set everything back up on shiny new shelves and trick yourself into feeling good about the exercise.  You haven’t really accomplished anything at that point – not if you are being honest with yourself. 

You’ve just rearranged your crap.

We all know what we need for our ‘crap.’ This isn’t news: a place for everything and everything in its place.  Pretty simple huh?  Yeah, but not so easy though, is it?  If you’re anything like me you have a decent sized pile of stuff laying around – stuff that still has value and is needed and used but that probably isn’t where it needs to be in order for you to feel productive and efficient with it.  Problem is you have to decide at some point what your stuff is and whether you really need it, and if you do, where to put it and how so you will know it’s there when you need it later.

And you probably don’t have places for all the stuff you think you want or need.

So you need to drag it all out, piece by piece, collect it all together so you can really see what you have.  You might be surprised what you’ve been collecting over the years and why. 

Why did I keep that old Planter’s Peanuts tin of used, bent nails that has always sat ontop of the tool cupboard in the corner behind the door?  Sure I appreciate the antique, blue tin, but why keep the useless nails inside it?  And what about the boxes of old light switches and receptacles from when we upgraded the electrical almost 20 years ago?  A broken drill?  Instructions and manuals for tools I’ve since replaced twice now?  And automotive light bulbs from which car now?  You don’t even remember what some of this stuff is or why you still have it…

So it’s time to move on.  Acknowledge it, appreciate that at one time you had need for it but now it doesn’t suit who you are and where you are going or what you are presently doing, and then let it go.  Garbage what needs throwing out, recycle what can be reused or repurposed – whatever you need to do to feel okay with getting rid of that past.

What you are left with after going through all your crap is what you really need and what really means something to you.  (Not what you thought you had or what you remembered you had.)  That in itself can be freeing.  We can attach some pretty deep emotions to our stuff – and it can prevent us from getting real about what things truly are and why we have them.  Yes, this old hand saw was my grandfather’s – they don’t make them like this anymore, and yes it is a connection to the past – but is it something I need in my life? Is the idea of the connection to the past what is important about this old rusty saw with its weathered wooden handle? Or is it an appreciation of the craftsmanship of the tool itself coupled with the connection to the past that keeps it on the pegboard along side newer models that I actually use? Occasionally use.  Okay, seldom use.

So it stays – but it doesn’t need to be easily accessible or take up valuable real estate in the new garage – it can be appreciated from a distance. Done. Next!

Now you need to figure out how to store it so you will see it and know what it is when you need it (if you need it but can’t find it, it doesn’t really help does it?)  I’ve purchased some wire racking that hangs from the ceiling above the overhead door – using those awkward, usually inaccessible spaces for your once-a-while stuff (like Christmas tree boxes and ornaments and lights etc) helps make the most of out whatever limited amount of space you have to store your stuff.  Oddly enough I had stacks of plywood and off-cut lengths of boards in the garage that could be repurposed as shelves and supports and bracing for shelves and supports.  You might need to go buy some – it’s worth your time to get exactly what you need and have it fit your space and your stuff.  Trust me.  There is nothing worse than a bastardized storage system that doesn’t really fit anything you own.  You’ll curse and swear at it every time you try to get something off the shelves or out of the too-small space or worse if you have to separate things to make them fit…

Plus it can be unsafe.

I relocated cupboards and custom built storage shelving from the old space into the new, needing to modify some to fit the new locations in order to allow the cars to fit in the garage alongside the ‘stuff’ and I took the time to paint the lower sections of shelving and cabinetry white to make it brighter and more easy to see where everything is.  Again, your stuff needs to be accessible to you when you need it.  Then I began the process of collecting the related items and putting them away in their places.  Trying my best to order and group them as I went along.

I’m guessing by now you can see why this process takes time, but also why you keep putting off doing it.  It isn’t easy.  I didn’t say it was.  It is necessary though if you want to get a handle on your crap; your stuff; your belongings and your ties to all of it. It’s an investment in you.  And that is important.

I’m not finished out there yet.  I don’t know if I will ever truly be finished organizing and storing my belongings to get them the way they need to be for me to feel like everything is finally in its place.

I think that’s the story of my life.  Probably of your life too if you stop and really think about it.  There are too few places where we feel like we belong in this world.  Where we know with absolute certainty that we are where we are supposed to be and doing what is really meaningful and important – to us and to those around us.  When you find one of those places, you need to stop and stay there awhile; take a good look around and touch the ground, the sky, the walls – feel it, know it, live it.  Become a part of that place, and make it yours.  Take it with you and keep it with you so you can fully be wherever it is you find yourself, knowing you are able to leave your mark along the way as you move through.  Even if its just for short periods of your spare time.

Maybe it’s your new garage – or your current one.  It might be your basement, or closet, or your desk or filing cabinet.  Pretty sure it’s your garden and flowerbeds and the front lawn.  And if you’re really being honest about it, it’s your life in general and the people you invite in and keep with you and those that somehow seem to find a way to stay in your life even though you know they shouldn’t be…

Chances are you have your share of pruning and weeding and cleaning up and dusting off to do too.  And you’ll soon have bags of last year’s debris on your curb, making room for next year’s too.  Renewal and change.

If you’ll excuse me, I know where I need to be right now.  You?

Uncertain Skies

Up until last week Spring didn’t seem to exist, but she was there in the shadows of the cool mornings and hidden within the flakes of snow and up in the grey clouds.  We get so used to seeing Spring being the outgoing, flamboyant, carefree spirit she usually is that when she arrives sullen and quiet and dressed in muted colours that it catches us by surprise and we stop for awhile concerned, wondering if she needs a moment or a shoulder or whether we should just let her figure things out on her own.

We’re learning that she can be like that.  Raised to be independent, she can handle herself, though she has her tender emotional side that she will let you see in rare glimpses if you are paying attention on those early mornings, the dew a reminder of how much she cares for all these things in the garden.  But she is a child of change and has been given the unenviable role of cleaning up Winter’s messes and bringing order to the chaos he left behind, a job she does with grace and beauty, usually, but this year she has been troubled and is struggling to find herself and dealing with emotions and feeling that she hasn’t had to face in some time.

She can be violent and it surprises all but those who know her closely – storms can rage behind her eyes so quickly and with such ferocity that you have only your instincts left to save you, automatic reactions of survival.  Then just as quickly calmness and serenity return with the certainty of songbird voices in the treetops.  We can be fooled by her fragility if we are not careful, and so we learn to watch her closely and softly prepare for any kind of weather, hoping for the bright sunny days and wrapping warmth that will usher us through to summer, but carrying a light jacket just in case.

No one said this season would be easy or simple or even pleasurable – the human need for labels and clear-cut angularity is not a natural requirement – balance? Yes, complete order and fairness? Not so much.  The best we can do is stand by and respond when called to act.  Take those clear blue, wonderful days and use them to our mutual advantage, planting seeds to reap later; taking the time to tidy up the fringes and edges that will always get ragged and uneven with normal wear and tear; touching up the paint and protecting those things we want to last.

And when she turns and suffers through her anger and rage, lashing out at those who love her, threatening harm and plowing destruction across her path we must stand firm in our resolve, knowing a kind heart and loving hand still exist under the dark, tumultuous skies; that behind eyes flashing with pure intensity and under booming baritone voice she is in there still, the gentle soul and laughing child who longs to be of service; the small, innocent wonder we remember.

And so we wait out the storms.

As I sit and wait for Spring

“How can we live without our lives?  How will we know it’s us without our past?”

John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

The snow is still deep in these parts this week, another 6 inches fell last week, but the spring sunshine is trying its best to generate the warmth to melt the banks and piles of white, and they are receding, and slowly is fine – no one wants a flood this year – too much drama and too much excitement when all we want is Spring.

We are tired of heavy clothes and warm boots, we long for sandals and bare skin, and we know if we are patient we will get our wishes, but we don’t know how long we’ll have to wait, or when we’ll finally know it has arrived.  So we wait and hope for something better.

You only get a week like mine once in your life – the passing of your mother and the ritual that brings with it – and I think that’s a good thing.  Even if you think you’re ready for the end, the actual reality of looking over and down that steep edge can change you, startle you, confuse you at times, while you comfort and console and try and make sense out of the most natural of consequences.

Society doesn’t prepare it’s citizens for this.  The subject is taboo in most circles and certainly the schools aren’t discussing the inevitable with young minds – that’s the Church’s job they’ll say – but with the dwindling numbers in the pews each week, there aren’t as many young minds pondering the fates as maybe there should be. 

Death and Life are joined ends of the same fragile thread, you can’t have one without the other, and depending on your beliefs, one leads to the other, mere reflections across a moment of silence. Understanding and comprehending the end of a life is not a simple thing, and it requires care and delicacy and honesty and room for thought and questions – it’s the perfect subject for a family talk – if only every family could be open and quiet and understanding when they needed to be and expressive and supportive and patient and kind as the members of the collective worked it out for themselves.

It will always be a mystery, until such time as one of us returns to tell about the experience – but I haven’t met anyone yet who’s had that journey – so a mystery it shall remain I suppose.  Though we can get, if we try and if we honestly want to, a better understanding of the reality of the end of a life by looking at those left behind, and by examining the process through which they attempt to accept the finality.

We each grieve differently and for different ends – some to finally remove the denial, others to allow the departed to go freely in peace, and some to prove to themselves that they really are living.  Some cry and are overcome by emotion, comforted by those around them; others mourn in silence and in quiet contemplation, watching and waiting for the lessons to be absorbed, and others rail at the thought of change and of new beginnings, just wanting one more day.

The rituals serve to allow those near to comfort each other and spend time remembering, looking back, reliving the life that was, while surrounded by the larger community that offers its support and love through accepted ways – food, drink, an offer of help in whatever way needed, flowers, cards, and warm embraces.  Slowly the outside world is allowed in.  The planning and necessary preparations for the ceremony and service are rooted in tradition but fluid enough to allow modern speed and convenience with the details, and those details help with the acceptance a little more each day.

Until finally the time arrives and collectively family, friends, community come together again in celebration and in mourning; in remembrance and in contemplation, all seeking redemption and understanding and peace.  The body is laid to rest and the soul is set free, the ultimate liberation for the departed.

Steinbeck asked “How can we live without our lives? How will we know it’s us without our past?”  The question posed at the thought of leaving everything behind to start again, bringing only the most necessary of possessions on the journey to a new life.  How does one live without those things, those tangible memories of who we once were and what we once had?  Can we ever really move on from our past?  Is it not deeply woven into the fabric of our souls?

I wondered about all this while looking at old pictures in dad’s house, assembling the slideshow for mom’s funeral, the family gathered together to share the task and talk and reminisce about her life and our memories of her – and photographs instantly take you back to different times, and they unleash a flood of memories.

There I am a boy of maybe 3, standing outside the passenger-side door of the old blue Pontiac, my hair a golden blonde lit by the afternoon sun at my grandpa and grandma’s, my teddy bear tucked under my arm – my constant companion – though here he looks like I never knew him, newer and plumper and still has both eyes intact – and that’s my dad’s cousin Craig standing beside me, red-headed boy about my age – the youngest cousin by far of that generation, and we’re both dressed in button-down shirts and dress pants – must have just returned from church and hadn’t changed…

Here I am now on the kitchen table of the old house, 70’s paisley wall-paper behind me, I’m about 5, school-aged and hair now more dusty than golden and I’m wearing pajamas – looks like mom made this pair – super heroes on a white background, navy blue elasticized cuffs, and I’m sitting on the table looking tired and worn at the camera, my face and body covered from head to toe in measles – the story gets repeated often – so often I know the words before I see the whole image – “…couldn’t place a dime anywhere without touching or covering a bump…”

Here’s one of all of us – looks like Christmas at someone’s house – a gathering of family and we’re scrunched together on the sofa – all six of us – 4 kids in the middle, mom and dad smiling happy smiles at either end, and we look ragged and happy too and God I remember that sweater Roger is wearing…

You can become defined by your past if you let it, or you can let it be what it was – a moment in time – and you can leave it there and move forward without being trapped by the situations and awkward decisions and horrible fashions.  You can take the important parts with you and leave the rest behind – you can if you want, and most of us should.  Steinbeck need not fear – we will know who we are without it all as long as we have each other – that’s all that matters.

It’s not what we have that defines us, it’s how we live and how we treat each other that reveals our true nature and our character.  The memories and objects of our past helped create the circumstances that tested us and moved us, and made us react – they helped us grow – but we needn’t carry them forward along with us – we already have them where they matter most.  It’s what’s inside that counts and what you show outside that makes a life.  It’s the people you allow in and keep there; it’s the ways in which you do the things only you can do, that’s your life, that’s where you live it – not in some grand outward example for everyone else to see – no, that’s the shallow trappings of ego and vanity needing to be fulfilled – not the true, natural essence of who you are…

And so patiently we wait. 

For Spring and for warmer days ahead, waiting but not knowing how or when it will arrive, but ready for when it most certainly does.  And we will live while we wait and one day we will leave the memories and photographs behind for others to hold and examine to wonder and ponder who we were and what it all means, and if we’ve done it right they will know – we will have told them, showed them, taught them who we were and how we lived and they will be comforted in that knowledge, and we can take that next step across knowing we’ve done our part.

Words of Remembrance for Mom

On Wednesday March 20^th, 2013 I shared the following Words of Remembrance with those in attendance at the funeral service for my mother, Roletta Parker – who passed away quietly and easily on Friday March 15 at the age of 71.  Mom was diagnosed with ALS/FTD (currently being addressed as Motor Neuron Disease (MND) which slowly, almost imperceivably, altered her thinking and social relationship abilities, then affected her memory and mobility, ultimately leaving her slowly running out of time like a watch forgotten to be wound.

We didn’t always see eye to eye, and I could be aggravated and frustrated by her actions and inactions at times, but that doesn’t diminish who she was or how she lived her life, nor does it take anything away from celebrating the life she lived while with us.  Time and patience help with understanding, and when able to see her world through the lens of the disease that shaped her reality, I could accept her and understand her choices and actions in a new and enlightened way.

The past 4-plus years of her illness allowed me to focus that clarity and to be at peace with the inevitable, a peace that comforted me and brought a serene calmness to the surreal events at the time of her final breath.  It was through that calm clarity that I sat down to capture a look back at her life to be able to share it with those gathered Wednesday afternoon.

Words of Remembrance

Roletta Lena Parker (1941-2013)

They say: "You never truly know someone until you've walked a mile in their shoes."

Thank you for coming today to help us celebrate the memory of Roletta's life. For those of you who don't know or don't remember - it has been quite a few years since I frequented this building on any regular basis - My name is Reid Parker, Reg and Roletta's second son, and I have been asked - okay nominated - to share a few brief words today in Remembrance of mom.

Before I begin though I want to take a moment to acknowledge the many calls and cards and casseroles and hugs and handshakes that we as a family have received over the last few days - your support and concern and condolences are very gratefully appreciated by all of us, especially dad during this difficult time.  Your continued support and community moving forward will be most welcome

As a child, it is difficult to really understand and comprehend what it means to be a parent, much less a mother, and it is only with time and having children of your own, that you begin to appreciate what you've been given: the values and principles and judgments and unconditional love that shaped who you've become. I'd like to take a few minutes today and try to walk a little ways in mom's shoes, to help us all get a better understanding of who she was and how she approached this world.

Roletta was born in Flin Flon, Manitoba on April 30th 1941, to parents Roland and Margretta Fox - Her given name a combination of both of their names: Roland and Margretta... She grew up in Manitoba and BC, the family finally settling back into the Birch River area of this province, north of Swan River.  Mom was the oldest of 5 children, and growing up in a farming community everyone in the family was expected to lend a hand and help out and being the oldest this meant helping with the younger siblings - and may have helped direct her when she left Birch River for Brandon to study to become a teacher.

She returned after graduation to teach in the one-room schools of Egremont and McKinley Schools - and it was during this return that she met dad and they began to date - and in Dec of 1961 they married, and soon moved down to Dauphin to begin their life together.

The next 9 years would see them build a family and a foundation here in town, Dad working for the Town of Dauphin, and mom raising 4 kids.  Looking back now with a parent's eyes and the passage of time, it could not have been easy to raise 4 kids on one income but that rural spirit and all hands pitching in mentality was what people in this community knew - and it was what we as kids learned early.  Mom always had a garden - a huge vegetable garden that provided food for a growing family as well as providing forced manual labour for poor defenseless children - we all have memories of hilling and weeding potatoes and picking beans and corn... to this day Roger still won't eat many vegetables!

The garden provided a winter's worth of canning and preparations in the fall, and mom always seemed to have a case of 'sealers' upturned on the kitchen counter cooling - jars of tomatoes and pickles, and jams and jellies.  The garden also provided mom with an opportunity to plant flowers and nurture them, something she enjoyed - probably as a means to escape the house full of loud kids - but also as an oasis of peace and nature right outside her door.  But that garden also provided us a place to play all winter when it was flooded into a huge skating rink and mom had to endure all our friends invading her house and the runny noses and cold feet and skate blades on the kitchen linoleum...

Mom also loved to sew and knit - again looking back now it probably grew out of necessity for the repairs of clothes for a growing family, then as we got older and more fashion conscious and wouldn't be caught wearing hand-me-downs - her sewing and knitting and needlecraft became a hobby  - and a source of sometimes amusing Christmas gifts. 

It's okay - you can laugh about it, we all have something hanging in our closets or packed away somewhere that she made- it was the thought behind the gift that counts.

Her sewing and cooking and canning won her many awards at the Fair over the years, but we remember more the smell of fresh baked bread in the house and the plates of homemade fudge - we've tried but I don't think any of us have been able to make that fudge recipe the way she did...

  

Mom also liked to draw and paint and used these interests as a way to center herself and keep some quiet time in her days - a daily time for herself that she always maintained.  She loved to read and would always walk to the library bringing back bags of books weekly - first with kids in tow then on her own - reading for knowledge and for recreation - but always 2 or 3 books on the go - sometimes back and forth between them, as well as puzzles and crosswords and various other brain teasers.  Learning was a lifelong pursuit.

Now her cooking and love of learning didn't always come together in what I would call successful ways - Mom has more cookbooks than Martha Stewart - and she was always reading and trying new recipes and new 'healthier' ways to feed her family - and maybe I was a bit stubborn as a child...maybe.  But lentils and soy beans and chick peas...? I'm sorry... No.

Again though, looking back, she wasn't trying to harm us or scar us for life - she was only trying to provide the best for her family.

As that family got older and all the kids were finally in school, Roletta had more time for interests outside the home - and volunteered for many years here with the United Church Women's Auxiliary - serving on the board in various capacities - and taught Sunday School for a while - again - this was probably more of a spy mission to make sure Randy Roger and I weren't wrecking the place downstairs,

but seriously the Church was central to her beliefs and especially in her approach to parenting and guiding us as children, providing a framework for the principles and values of what it means to become responsible productive members of a congregation and community and society.  Every Sunday we were here, listening, learning, absorbing the lessons and teachings, and she would reinforce them at home - she strived for a period of daily devotion and to impart that message to us while we were still young enough to easily accept it - and again, looking back now, as much as it seemed to be a painful process as a child, it certainly didn't hurt us as we became adults...

Socially mom and dads's circle of friends grew and was reinforced through the countless hours spent chasing and supporting the kids - first with skating and swimming lessons with Regina and Randy then with hockey and baseball for Roger and I - and there are many memories of hotel rooms and buses and hockey trips and the parents together sharing a few beverages and more than a few laughs.

Mom liked to laugh and tell stories and to be part of the group - though her repertoire of tales was limited and repeated often - and ALWAYS involved some embarrassing moment or story about one of us - and like any mother she would find the most awkward point in the conversation with all your friends around to tell the story about you... I think it's a mother's gift.

As the family slowly departed home for higher study and occupations and lives of our own, mom's focus continued to shift and evolve, the curling she and Reg enjoyed for many years gave way due to knee problems, but was replaced with golfing and 5-pin bowling - recreation and social pursuits that they shared together and in separate men's and women's leagues.  Healthy competition and constant personal improvement - though I still don't know how she hit a golf ball with that swing...

I think I came by that stubbornness naturally...

With her children married and with children of their own, mom and dad assumed the roles of Grandma and Papa and the caring for another generation, but this time a step removed from the front lines, and baby-sitting and after school care and weekends looking after grandkids became regular parts of their lives. The lessons and values and principles that we were given as kids were passed along once more.

The last few years saw Roletta slowly losing ground to the double whammy of ALS and Motor Neuron Disease which began to slowly take her mentally and then physically from this world.  She accepted her situation with resolve and determination and continued to keep active as best she could - knitting and reading and being a part of the family, still living at home.  She gained members of a new and caring family as the disease progressed and Home Care became a regular part of Mom and Dad's lives, and we are forever thankful for the loving care she received.

Peacefully last Friday she passed away.

As I was going through things in the house these last few days - the stories, the photographs, the memories - trying to find the words to share with you today, I came across this poem, torn out of who knows where, on the computer desk downstairs, and I wanted to close with it's words:

A Little Step Away - O J Hanson

To close the eye, to fall alseep,

to draw a labored breath,

to find release from daily cares

in what we know as Death

Is this the crowning of a life,

the aim or end thereof?

The totaled sum of consciousness,

The ripened fruit of love?

It cannot be, for works of God

are wrought for nobler ends

and those away continue on

In the hearts of kin and friends.

It cannot be for they live on

A Little Step Away

The soul, the everlasting life

Has found a better day.

We haven't walked a mile in her shoes today, not even more than a few steps.

But I think when we stop and look back at the footprints she left behind, we can find them throughout all of our lives.  They weren't always easy to see.  They were hidden at times beneath our own, guiding us along at other times, but always there in who we were and who we have become. 

 Thanks Mom, for everything...

Thoughts from 35,000 feet

At 35000 ft things are supposed to be clearer than they seem today.

Not clearer in the sense of being able to see the ground perfectly without those patches of puffy white cloud as the jet soars northward, but clearer in the sense of being able to see the big picture, something I like to think I have a fairly keen sense of being able to do with certain clarity most days.  But when presented with the actual unique perspective of seeing the world from 35000 ft above, watching the rocky snow capped tops of mountains far below rising sharply from the land around them - dotted areas of human experience the minority among the angular slopes - I'm less sure of what I need and what I know than I was a week ago when we first flew into the Arizona desert.

I've left something of my soul behind this trip, and while that isn’t a departure from previous trips for me, this time feels like I've left something important, and I'm not quite feeling whole.

Maybe it was the desert sun, such a stark contrast to the winter snow and wind- chills we left behind allowing us to bare our arms and legs in shorts and t-shirts instead of wooly layers, or maybe it was the barren landscape of browns and washed out greens, the desolate remains of fertile plains baked by the sun for centuries as the rivers carried soils southward, the scrubby granular backdrop to a story of survival and perseverance that called to me.  Or maybe it was the chance to finally experience a place that I have been to many times in my mind but never in person, an opportunity to cement a connection that has been growing for many years, one which has sustained me and fulfilled me in ways I never knew I needed.

This trip was planned around the boy and hockey, a chance for a hard-luck team to experience success at the end of a season of disappointment and return home for the playoffs re-energized and reminded of how winning feels, hopefully to create momentum to mount a charge against much higher seeded opponents.  A 1-27 squad arrived and fought their way to the final four in Phoenix before bowing out in an early morning loss on Monday, going 3-2 during the tournament and bonding together away from the rinks in the way that only a trip away from home can provide - poolside time without parents and coaches, day trips to experience the local attractions, and teen-aged independence in a foreign country help to create the men these boys will become.  Where this year's season ends is yet to be decided, but there is no denying they will have changed thanks to this week.

And while hockey was the reason we found ourselves in Phoenix in mid- February, we took advantage of the trip to further expand our horizons and see more of this world if even for only a few extra days, and experience as much of what the area has to offer as we could given the time constraints. Half the team decided to stay a few more days beyond the end of the games to either relax or sightsee instead of returning to the ice and snow.

We've learned we need to do this, not content to sit and stay if we can drive and see and do when in a new land, and this trip afforded us a unique ability to see and do with local knowledge and guidance, a welcomed treasure to be sure, one which accelerated our ability to extract the nuances from the sites and scenery in a way we could never have hoped to do on our own. 

And so we set out to see the Arizona that exists outside the desert playground, the one that offers stunning vistas and changing geographies within an hour's drive north on I17.  We were treated to ancient ruins and stony cliffs, arid soils dotted with cactus and desert vegetation, pine forests and wooded parklands, and towering jagged peaks topped with frosted snow in the distance.  The elevations changed as quickly as the landscape and for the flat-landers from the North it was a treat for the senses, though we could do without the pressure changes every now and then, and let’s not speak of the snow that followed us south…

We stepped back in time along Route 66 in Williams, AZ then further back at the South rim of the Grand Canyon - 'the big hole'- and where many might find a certain ambivalence surrounding the natural wonder, Karen and I most certainly felt a connection to the area, even though we only spent a few short hours along it's edge.  The boy seemed intrigued but also a little fearful, perhaps challenged by the reality of the landscapes, and hopefully in time he will find the hours spent here to be beneficial to his understanding of his surroundings. I got to frame the lands through a viewfinder this time, again not so different from trips past, but a new camera provided a new lens through which to filter the sights, and while not yet fully comfortable with the new gear it did allow me greater freedom and artistic license to capture my perspectives.

The same was true of the hockey I watched, not as a parent tuned solely to my son the way most parents are, but through the camera lens I was able to find a profound distance from the boy which brought increased clarity and acceptance of the reality of the games, far removed from the normal ego-centric view from the stands.  Framing shots of each player as they moved through the contests, I watched the activity unfold rather than willing it to happen, and when favorable outcomes appeared I was fully present and able to capture tiny moments of time, freezing them forever, able to step through them slowly and perfectly, uncovering details usually lost in the speed of the action.

Maybe that's why I feel less than whole today - though I know I need more time to reflect upon the week to truly help it settle - maybe that's what I left behind. In the desert mountains and ancient landscape I found something I didn't know I had lost, and in wrapping it up to carry forward with me I was forced to uncover and leave behind a part of my nature that has always seemed central to who I was. 

The boys came to Phoenix to leave behind a hockey past and carry home a new future.  I came to Phoenix with open eyes and found in its ancient past a part of my soul that has lain dormant and quiet, an understanding that watching my world through a different lens allows more light in and creates greater time and space, letting me be still in the chaos.  The silence of the Arizona soul, still existing in quiet corners and deep within the lands, will speak to you if you let it, but it can be difficult to hear it through the constant noise of the future.

I was wrong. Things are perfectly clear up here at 35000 ft. Sometimes you need that distance to help you focus and allow the true image to appear.