DROWNING

Drowning is like a slow-motion dance with the rest of your life.

The final choreography is heavy in its weightlessness, each little movement bringing you closer to the truth of who you are.

Something as sharp as broken glass enters your mind, cutting veins at their deepest, causing blood to rush out of ears, nose, mouth.  Blood, like blue water, can becomes beautiful and translucent, allowing us to glimpse the hidden folds of our own time. It does not flow but pools instead, shifting sand into old, nearly forgotten wounds.

I take two steps forward in the shallow water that is my destiny.  The ground beneath me falls away almost instantly. My mind spins in disbelief as my toes try to stretch towards a bottom that is no longer there. Water simultaneously washes over my head, blurring my vision and muffling sounds. Electricity surges through my entire body. A split second and everything familiar no longer is. I come up for air, try to find the horizon. I keep my head above water and breathe. I notice the most mundane things passing by me; floating seaweed, a cloud, the sound of my own heart, even as fear beats heavy fists against my ribs.

Who is watching? Can anyone see my anguish, so raw and exposed? Life, like death and birth is propelled by a force from beyond the stars. We start out like water and end in dust, dancing for a brief time in between. We do not realize until the moment of truth, that this must all be done alone.

Then comes a silence that envelopes me and erodes my thoughts. It enters my mind like creeping vapour and settles in corners I cannot fathom. Memories come from afar as though in a dream.
I begin to soar, first over water, then above the trees, my belly skimming the highest branches. I look down at all the places where I have lived, all the people I have loved, and my heart rejoices as the wind kisses my cheeks.  Air rushes past my ears as I pick up speed and glide with ease over great distances. I see the room where you first looked at me with intimate eyes, the very spot where you made me tremble with unquenched desire and a peace descends upon my heart.

On a table I see my name in red ink, angry slashes on a white page. I come up for air once again. I absorb that the sky is still blue in spite of my own tragedy. The world will continue no matter what happens to me. I reach out but can only feel my own deep grief as well as joy at having been loved.  I am still dancing, not yet ready to be touched by a watery hand.

And then I understand completely. Memories are more painful than the cuts of knives, and water, fluid, clear, intoxicating water, is much more powerful than metal.  I can become a prisoner of my own fear or I can let go and allow the dance to take me to the place where even the mirror does not recognize me.

HOME IS WHERE YOU HANG YOUR HEART

It doesn’t really matter if immigration takes place because of war or persecution, or simply to try and give your children a better life. The mere act of migrating from the country of your birth to another means the migrant will forever be torn between two places; the one he loves because his roots are there and the one he loves enough to try and transplant himself.

I have lived with this duality for most of my life. I arrived in Canada as a child and I have grown to love and value being a Canadian. I have contributed to Canada's future by working hard and giving it two children, one grandchild, and over time, many tax dollars! I have buried loved ones here, made lasting friendships and traveled from coast to coast, appreciating our Canadian diversity and vastness and beauty at every turn. I am a proud ambassador of most of what Canada stands for and can get quite cranky when I hear unjust criticism of it.

But I admit freely that I have never lost my yearning for the light and the language and the music of my birth country, knowing full well that if I were magically transported there this very minute, I would feel like a total stranger. The country has moved forward without me and the span that has created can no longer be bridged.

What we immigrants really pine for is not so much a physical place as a moment in time that is long gone. This is why we get so excited when we stumble upon a restaurant that serves foods we grew up with, or hear a song in our mother tongue; it instantly transports us to all those lost moments and allows us a few seconds of reprieve from those feelings of permanent loss. One could say that to become an immigrant is to live in a permanent state of grief and that this dull ache becomes totally acceptable over time, as the positive aspects of the new chosen life, hopefully outweigh the negatives one has opted to leave behind.

I have been a proud Canadian for 50 years now but I know that I will forever long for a pocketful of memories that keep a certain light and language and music, alive in my soul.

 

January

I was sitting at my hair dresser's this morning, sipping a latte and reading about William and Kate in a magazine. It was either that or read about the Kardashians  and I really wasn't up to that. I wish them well but I think they should all be shipped to a far off island.
I was lamenting the fact that it was -36 outside and that my boots, which I had hoped would see me through one more winter, had started to leak this week. I reviewed, in my head, all the things I still have to do before tomorrow and then got that niggly feeling that I had forgotten something.
And sure enough, I had.
I had forgotten to enjoy the moment I was in! How many more good moments am I entitled to before Fate intervenes? Like learning to tread water, I am teaching myself to not hurry forward all the time nor to look back over my shoulder at things that have already taken place. That's a waste of a precious commodity; my own time allotment. But sometimes I forget and fall back into my old pattern of wistful nostalgia combined with a kind of 'must-do' nervous energy.
My hairdresser, a young woman of 39 who looks all of 20, perhaps got a whiff of my winter mood and suggested that I might do something dramatic with my hair. The old "you can always grow it out" mantra worked. With only a second's hesitation  I gave her the go-ahead and returned to my reading, leaving her to get creative.
When I next looked up, two inches of hair were gone and the rest was layered and wispy. I finished my latte, put on some fresh lipstick, paid, (Woo-hoo, I am now entitled to a senior discount!) got back into my heavy coat and leaky boots, and left for home feeling good about absolutely everything.
It's not the haircut, although a new look is always psychologically refreshing. No, it's the fact that I took the time to just be and to savour everything around me; the flavour of the coffee, the sound of the scissors snipping away, the photos of Kate Middleton, now pregnant like my own daughter was not long ago. And yes, even the feeble sunlight which I enjoyed as I walked home in our  frigid weather.
With no other thought than getting inside as quickly as possible, I turned into my walkway, fished the keys out of my pocket and opened my front door. A wall of warmth greeted me as my sunglasses fogged up and my nose dribbled. Our old dog, deaf now and no longer very energetic, wagged his tail upon seeing me. As I unzipped my coat and removed my boots I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. The woolen hat I had worn had given me static electricity and I no longer looked anywhere near as glamorous as I felt!
But that's okay. I had a great morning in spite of everything. None of us know how many more winter days we will experience in good health so I'm glad I took the time to enjoy this one. I wonder if the Kardashians know anything about living in the moment?

Christmas Gratitude

It goes without saying that the most precious gift to come my way this year is our grandson, a strong and healthy boy with lungs to match and a smile that melts our hearts.  But there were countless other blessings as well for which I am most grateful.
One in particular came in the form of an unexpected gift.  In the fall, a very dear friend of mine lost her elderly mother. She had been chronically ill for quite some time so it was not a surprise when things took a turn for the worse. Nonetheless, it is always a shock to lose your mother and my friend was quite sideswiped by how intensely she felt her loss.
True to form, however, she and her sisters did what their mother would have wanted them to do under the circumstances. They got organized, rolled up their sleeves and got to work. There were phone calls to make, cards to send out, and an entire apartment to empty. Time for grieving would come soon enough.
I first met my friend’s mother some 25 years ago when she would come to our city to visit her daughter. My friend would pick her up at the train station and then give her free reign in the kitchen where she always took all the cupboards apart so she could wash down and then re-paper the shelves. It drove my friend nuts but she never complained because she knew it was a gift from the heart, something that made her mother feel useful.
Every time she came I would make it a point to go and say hello to her, partly because she was a very nice woman and I enjoyed talking to her but also because my friend objected strenuously to her smoking in the house. This meant she was often banished to the garden where she would sit alone puffing away, much to her daughter’s displeasure. It was her only vice, as she once told me, one she was never able to give it up, not even when her health went into serious decline.  As an ex-smoker myself, I was not as offended by her bad habit as my friend was so I would sit with her on the porch and we would have these brief little chats about motherhood, about recipes, her grandchildren and above all, my friendship with her daughter, a full ashtray on the table between us.
I was genuinely saddened when poor health prevented her from further visits a few years ago, sadder still when I heard that she had passed away. I was happy however, to note that all of her daughters had managed to spend quality time with her at the end and that they had had the opportunity to say their good-byes. Her courage was extraordinary for she did not want to linger and go piecemeal once she learned of her final prognosis. Upon hearing it she made sure that her ending would be dignified and on her own terms. This was a great comfort, even to me.
A few weeks ago my friend came to visit me with a little bag. Imagine my surprise and genuine delight when I opened it and discovered a beautiful china tea cup that had once belonged to her mother. What an honour to be given something that she had treasured throughout her life. A gift like that is immeasurable in value because you then hold a piece of that person’s history in your hands. It connects you forever to that person and to those she loved. In my case, it has added a new dimension to the bond with my friend because by entrusting me with this cup, she is telling me that I have a lasting place in her heart. There is no better gift than that.

 

Unconditional

I have been very busy since becoming a grandmother. Our little man arrived ten weeks ago under blue skies which I pray is an indication of many such days ahead. One doesn’t want to be greedy but I wish this precious boy all the happiness this world has to offer even though I know he will not always be spared his share of hardship and grief.

When I first laid eyes on him, my throat constricted and my heart actually felt a physical burst of love.  I was so happy to see him and I  got teary at the mere thought that my daughter and her husband had finally had their dream come true. They had waited a very long time for this precious gift. Good things come to those who wait.

By no means is our boy an easy baby. He is a light sleeper and he has digestive issues. His parents have spent many nights rocking, cradling, singing, pacing, burping, coddling, worrying.  When I hear these stories I always remember my own time as a new mother, a time when things were done very differently.

For one thing, I think we worried less. My daughter’s crib had a bumper pad and she also had a thick blanket which I used without fear to cover her up to her chin. We had no monitoring device with a video camera for me to observe her 24/7. If I wanted to know how she was I had to climb the stairs, which I did many times a day. Back then we even laid our babies on their sides or on their stomachs to sleep which is absolutely verboten nowadays.  

The six year gap between my two children meant that by the time the second one arrived, the world had moved from cloth to disposable diapers (hurray, no more lugging a heavy diaper pail up and down the stairs!)  and Tommy Tipee had invented the monitor, a hideous set of plastic boxes with thick brown antennas which allowed even our neighbours, who also had this contraption for their baby, to listen in as I read my baby a story every night.

I was without fear when it came to my babies, believing with all my heart that only I knew best what they needed and wanted. It never occurred to me to heed the warnings on labels or government decrees. By today’s standards, that would likely make me a negligent mother. But I am watching my daughter's confidence grow and blossom as she has come to understand her own strength as a mother. It is like passing on am invisible torch.

I have discovered that I am willing to be taught new tricks. I like the video cam monitor very much as it gives you lasting peace of mind. I also like the natural fabrics that are now used for cribs and baby things in general. No more plastic and no more synthetics!  I could not use my collapsible baby stroller in winter but my grandson has a Cadillac model which will allow his parents to push their way through even thick snowbanks.

There are no rights and wrongs. Every generation has to find the middle ground of balance and harmony. For me it was all about getting my babies on to a schedule as soon as possible so that I could lead a life within those bounds. My daughter, in contrast, feeds on demand which means that her baby has no particular schedule.  She doesn’t have much opportunity yet for things not related to baby….but she is very willing to make that sacrifice for the sake of her son’s well-being. If only we had known then, what we know now…

As much as I am learning how to be a modern grandmother, my daughter has a new-found respect for me as a parent. You can’t really tell anyone how tough it is to be a parent until they are in the game. It’s nice to have that acknowledged.

So we are clucking along, my daughter and I, like the two mother hens that we are,  watching and loving our little man from our respective points of view. He will be all the richer for the unconditional love which flows so freely towards him, allowing us to cull the best from our combined experiences. Everyone benefits when things are done lovingly and respectfully.

 

As I said, I have been very busy.

Find Your Courage

This month marks the eighth anniversary of Kelly-Anne Drummond’s murder, a young woman I unfortunately never got to meet but who worked on the same film as I, “Dreams and Mirrors”, the year before her death. That coincidental link has haunted me for years, especially as her murder took place at a time when I was actively researching and writing about the topic of abuse and the code of silence that still surrounds it.

Statistically, Kelly-Anne was just one more Montreal woman who lost her life in a ‘domestic’. As the story of her tragedy unfolded, however, and her accused boyfriend went to trial, I saw many photos of her and of her grieving mother in the newspaper and the story suddenly had a face and became very personal. My heart went out to Kelly-Anne’s mother, Doreen Haddad, because I also have a daughter and could fathom some of what this mother was likely going through. I finally met Doreen six years later.

It was at the screening of “Dreams and Mirrors” which had been dedicated to Kelly-Anne. I could see that Doreen wanted to use her tragic experience to benefit others and I knew that I could help. We talked about making a film to highlight the red-flag moments and we expanded the idea to include a web presence so that it would have maximum impact on the targeted audience; young women who believe that having a boyfriend, even one who does not respect you or treat you well, is better than having none.

There were problems from the get-go, from a sponsor supposedly interested in new media projects but who never attended any of our meetings, to the cost of setting up an interactive website. Funding was an ongoing issue. Schools I approached thought it was a great idea to make a video on the topic to generate a discussion on violence and abuse in relationships, but they had no budget to actually commission such a film. The truth is that the topic of domestic violence makes everyone uncomfortable.

Thanks to a producer friend who did all the legwork while I was overseas for six months, I was able to at least get an on-camera interview with Doreen.  I asked a colleague in Toronto to help me and he drove five hours in rain and hail to come do so.  We then spent an entire day with Doreen at her home and got her to tell us about the days and weeks leading up to Kelly-Anne’s death and the cruel details of her actual murder. As my colleague, a father of two daughters later said….it was the toughest thing he ever had to film.

It would be another year before we were able to edit the footage, again with the aid of a colleague who gave of her time and allowed me the free use of her editing equipment. All the people involved agreed to help me tell Kelly-Anne’s story because, like me, they believe that the subject of abuse and domestic violence should not remain taboo.  What we have, after a two year struggle, is a seven minute film about the red-flag moments that indicate domestic violence is taking place.

It took great courage for Doreen to tell her story so honestly. She wishes every single day that she had known then what she knows now; that her daughter was too proud or maybe just too scared to come forward and ask for help in dealing with her abusive boyfriend. In remembering their last conversation, Doreen tearfully asks “what could I have done differently that day?”

What can any parent do when an adult child is making a mistake that might cost them their lives? That is the question we address in my film, Find Your Courage. To see a clip, watch Caroline van Vlaardingen’s report on violence in teen relationships on CTV on October 26^th. Then please do your part to help educate people and remove the stigma of this dark topic so that the victims themselves, can come forward before they become a statistic, like Kelly-Anne Drummond.

Next Chapter

Summer is quickly coming to a close. Days are already getting shorter and there is a feeling of fall in the air, especially early in the morning when I am out walking my dog. I am so looking forward to September and the impending birth of my grandchild!

So with all this change in the air, I felt it was time to implement a few of my own, which in my case included sprucing up this site. Many thanks to the talented and charming Amelie Roy for her help in creating this new look which more accurately represents the kind of musings I want to share with you as I enter the next phase of my life.

As for the title change from AGING GRACEFULLY to MENTAL SOFA, there is a story behind that: Years ago when I was studying at Concordia one of my professors surprised us one morning by having placed a lump of clay on our desks as we walked into class. “Make something that represents where you go in your mind when you are troubled,” was the only instruction she gave.

Since I perceived myself at the time as someone who has no artistic talent, (I have since revised that opinion) I felt quite paralyzed. I sat there staring at the grey lump in front of me wondering what on earth I might be able to produce. Finally, with class time running out, I formed a crude sofa-like object and called it, when asked to give it a title, My Mental Sofa. I realized, as I looked at the lumpy shape in front of me, that it was an absolutely accurate symbol of where I go for my quiet time. It still stands on my shelf today, decorated over the years by little trinkets, and reminds me that we are all creative in our own right.